His Dark Possession
by Kittie Darkhart
Summary: March 1929. He had always possessed her, the claim on her made, long before either realized the consequences derived from it. For a man like Caledon Hockley was not one to give up that which he claimed so easily—not even from beyond the grave.
1. Chapter One: A Gift, Most Unwanted

Disclaimer: I do not own _Titanic_, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to James Cameron, Paramount Pictures, Twentieth Century Fox, and their respected owners.

Summary: March 1929. He had always possessed her, the claim on her made, long before either realized the consequences derived from it. For a man like Caledon Hockley was not one to give up that which he claimed so easily—not even from beyond the grave. AU.

His Dark Possession

Chapter One

_Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania_

_March 15__th__, 1929_

'_A man's real possession is his memory. In nothing else is he rich, in nothing else is he poor._' – Alexander Smith

…

The promising light of a new day brimmed over the distant horizon as the quiet solitude of the night ebbed away in a pool of retreating darkness. Silence pervaded the stillness of the moment, however, as the Hockley mansion—one surely of an imposing and most sedate structure—stood amidst the change, resilient, steadfast, and was almost as firm and unyielding as the great men it had housed for almost a century. The mansion stood as a testament to the opulence and grandeur bestowed upon it by three generations, as its current owner was no exception.

Caledon Hockley, a man greatly admired and praised and desired by many, if not a man whom many of his acquaintance wished to _be_, lay half in his bed, hopelessly beyond drunk. An empty bottle of brandy lay on its side in the bed beside of him, staining the sheets with its liquid, golden-amber coloring. Its potent smell was almost like a noxious perfume: both tantalizing and repugnant at the same time; as it, combined with the small ribbon of sunlight that penetrated the dark curtains, was enough to stir its master from another night of self-imposed oblivion.

Hazy, bloodshot eyes opened wearily to _greet_ the early morning light…and closed just as wearily as the blinding pain did nothing for the mind-shattering ache that raged within his head. He groaned at the pain, muttering a curse as he, after a few moments of hesitation, pulled himself out of bed.

His eyes adjusted to the light, his senses, albeit somewhat impaired and dulled by the previous night's drinking, returning to him. He gave a passing glance at the bottle that lay on his bed before turning to the glass on his nightstand. His left hand reached out and touched the cold glass, which had assuredly been placed there not half an hour before. He almost snorted at the _kind_ gesture of his head maid. Mrs. Bridgeton, ever the faithful servant, had left it, just as she always had in times such as these.

Cal looked upon the horrid concoction she had made with grim distaste. The pale, yellow liquid was a sickly rendition of the orange juice he'd had the previous morning. It was bound to make him vomit—perhaps even more so than it would if he did _not_ imbibe in it. Either way, he felt the effects of the brandy he had taken in the previous night, the sweltering taste of it still heavily laden upon his tongue, which was now, almost like a leaden weight. It was difficult to breathe, let alone swallow. He almost choked at the attempt.

Frowning, Cal ignored the drink as he stumbled, almost falling, when he made his way to the bathroom. He grumbled yet another curse under his breath when he removed his sweat-stained shirt and tie, and grimaced at the intoxicating smell of brandy, the once-crisp, white linen now a yellowed, spotted mess of idleness and drink. Splendid. Another shirt, ruined by another careless night of drinking alone. It was a wonder that his pistol had not accompanied him…

Cal shook his head. Best not think of that. Not now, anyway. It would not do to ponder such things, whilst in the middle of a blinding headache. And besides which, he had no wish to die in a similar fashion, as the great Bard himself had, albeit his death had not been self-inflicted. Cal snorted at the thought. Oh, yes, today, of all days, was _his_ _birthday_—his _forty_-_seventh_, in fact. It was nothing that he wished to acknowledge, let alone celebrate. And yet, all the same, he considered it, considered everything that had led him to this point in his life. He briefly thought of his childhood, of his days at Harvard, of his mother's death, of his marrying and taking over the company, and of his father dying several years later. But, more importantly, he thought of the whirlwind affair that had knocked him on his heels at thirty, he thought of _Titanic_, and yes, he even thought of…

But he cast the thought abruptly aside when he felt his composure crumble and he vomited in the sink. He disregarded what lingered at the depths of its basin, its porcelain white length now tainted by what little he had consumed the previous evening. In truth, he had very little resting on his stomach, his desire to eat somewhat lacking in its enthusiasm of late. Cal almost sneered at the knowledge of his forced abstinence of food, though thought better of it as another wave of nausea overcame him.

His shoulders shifted and his stomach heaved, the solid remainder in his gut surging through like a current in his already blistered throat. A sickening stream of bile erupted from his mouth. Cal groaned in pain, almost collapsing against the sink. He leaned against it, half-attempting to regain some of his strength. He breathed slowly, deeply, until the weakness passed, his skin covered in a thin layer of sweat.

He turned the faucet on, a wealth of cold water gushing from its tap. He washed his face, gently padding away the sickness and vomit that had rendered him so helpless only moments before. God, he had been such a fool, to indulge himself in so much. What ever had possessed him to lose control of himself? He had never been so careless in his youth. _But then, that was before I took over that thrice-damned company. But then, again…that is not completely the truth, either_, he thought darkly.

He shook his head. He knew _why_, but would never admit it, not even unto himself. But the truth remained, if only underneath the surface of his consciousness. For the truth plagued him even worse when he was sober than it did when he was drunk, as he was presently, halfway in between those two aforementioned states. He was coherent, his mind slipping away from the dark recesses of drink. He looked down at his hands; he drank for various reasons—most of which he never allowed himself to acknowledge, not even to his friends.

Friends.

What a joke. In all actuality, he had no friends, only colleagues. He never confided in them any more than what was expected of him, and certainly never disclosed anything of a personal nature. No, Cal would keep his inner demons to himself, if not carry them to the grave with him. It was what every man of his acquaintance did, after all, and was what, he knew, was to be expected. And, as per usual, a man like Caledon Hockley towed the line, just as any other good patron of society did. He could do no less. In fact, he could do no more. For in the eyes of society, he was a pillar of all that was deemed perfection, his reputation and the family name kept pristine, and showing none of the blemishes or burdens he might secretly bare from within.

Cal was perfection itself—if only on the surface. Inside, however, he was an absolute wreck, and he knew it. He knew it just as he knew the sun rose in the east and set in the west. It was a part of him that was as deep and intrinsic as the blood that flowed through his veins. Hockley blood.

Another wave of sickness overcame him, but he refused to succumb to it, refused to pass-out again, as he had the morning before. For a man of Caledon Hockley's caliber could never, in any form or circumstance, appear weak or vulnerable. It was simply not done. For had his father not taught him as much? His father had taught him many things, of course, and Cal had listened like the trained disciple he so inherently was to his father. He glowered at the thought of it as he righted himself, standing as a man of his position should as he faced the man in the mirror before him.

For there, before its silver surface, was a face he had seen, since long before he could remember. Cal frowned at his appearance, his eyes dark and baggy and bloodshot as a pair of shadows hung heavily underneath them. He looked old. He even _felt_ old. He shook his head at the sight. Years of managing Hockley Steel had taken their toll on him, his face dotted over in wrinkles and deep-set lines. His once-thick dark hair was thinning as a smattering of grey lingered near his temples. He was certainly not the same man whose airy confidence could have boasted any number of girls at his side. Those days were, well and truly, over.

Cal made a face. Not that such mattered, of course—not anymore. He had no need to catch the interest of a potential bride, for having been for years long divorced from that unfaithful harlot of a wife who had granted him three _beautiful_ children. He sometimes wondered if they were even his. They looked so much like their mother, with her dark-red hair and turbulent green eyes, that he could never prove anything to the contrary.

If he could, however…

He doubted he would have turned them out, despite his god-given right to. No one of his circle would have blamed him for it if he had. He would only have Charlotte to look after then, and even she was not of his own blood.

He looked away from the mirror at the thought of her, his Charlotte, his adopted _daughter_. He almost grimaced, when he recalled the day after everything that had happened, that day after…He shook his head. It was of little importance now, for the child that he had _saved_ from the cold, icy waters that night had ultimately found a place in his home. He could not understand what had possessed him to take her in. Perhaps it had been the fact that, deep down, he knew that she had lost her family and had been orphaned, since no one had come to claim her, wretched, lost, lice-ridden little thing she had been then.

He then recalled her from that night, hiding behind some obscure piece of machinery, for which he had no name. She had obviously been left—abandoned or misplaced, was anyone's guess—by those who had, assuredly, once _loved_ her. It would have grieved the most sublime and tender of hearts to see such a pitiful creature, if not move them to wipe away those frozen tears, and take her in.

Conversely, though, Cal himself had held little regard for her, crying and left abandoned on the ship's decks, her simple, tattered, peasant's clothing and dirty golden ringlets giving her station away. She had only been a means to save _him_ from a cold, watery fate. She had mattered little else to him then. And yet, upon finding that Charlotte—or rather, Moira, as had been her name before he _legally_ changed it—had found no one else, and none of his acquaintances would take the child in, since most had sneered at her, disregarding her existence completely, he found a semblance of compassion amidst his own, inner turmoil.

For it was in that moment, upon seeing her standing alone in a crowded room, so accompanied by those of his own caste and yet so completely alone, that the truth of his careless words the previous night struck true: _he_ was all that she had in the world. He had decided then and there to take the child in, no matter his own grief in losing the one thing most precious to him. It was the only decent thing a gentleman could do, given the circumstances.

Most had hailed him as a compassionate hero, a philanthropist of the highest degree. It was all a façade, however, a clever pretence made, since most of his association would not have even had the thought to take the girl in. They would say they had, of course, since such was expected of them to say, considering the uproar _Titanic's_ sinking had ultimately caused. Damn it all, but even inquests had been made, concerning who had truly been at fault for the great liner's sinking.

Cal nearly rolled his eyes, since he himself had failed to follow the headlines, for he had no care for whether Ismay and the others were held accountable or not. The fool could have hung for his stupidity, with his head held low in shame, for all Cal cared. _He is certainly living with being deemed a coward every day as it is_, he thought dryly, as he frowned at the thought of Ismay.

For never again would Cal ever travel by a vessel of the White Star Line. He despised the company and all associated with it, including those who had perished that night. He had held them wholly responsible, no matter the Senate's ruling that an _iceberg_—and not the damned crew—had been at fault. Apparently, they had little power to fault any of those who survived, those who might _have_ _been_ _responsible_. Ismay had barely escaped with his reputation intact, albeit even that had been tarnished; for Cal knew, as those who had survived; or, at least, knew of the matter, that Ismay had been branded a coward. And from what Cal knew, the man was forced to recognize such every day since.

It mattered little, however, since Cal himself had managed to successfully escape from that self-same condemnation, and live a life beyond that night. Adopting Charlotte had been the first sign of his already complex and complicated life. His marriage to Felicia Delaford and the three children that resulted from it had been a true turning point in his life, certainly, since his taking over the company soon afterward had been the final indication that his life _and_ future had already been set in stone—there was no escape, no _iceberg_ to change his present course. For in the eyes of society, Caldeon Hockley had become _everything_ his father had intended him to be. His children: Marcus, Alexander, and Celia—ranging from the eldest to youngest—represented the assured future of the Hockley dynasty, as they continued in the family's traditions.

No, Cal would not denounce them as bastards, spawned by the Italian lover with whom their mother had cavorted and lived with after their divorce had been finalized, just as that same, errant lover left her in turn not a year later. Cal had taken full custody of the children as a form of revenge, punishing his former wife by stripping her of all of her rights—maternal and otherwise—to them. He had acknowledged them without a hint of suspicion, and he had been praised for his conduct, since he was deemed justified in his handling of an unfaithful whore.

Cal frowned. He could not claim them illegitimate after such a spectacle, anyhow; it was already, much too late for that.

He had his heir, useless and stupid as the boy was, for all the good it did him. Though regardless, the Hockley legacy was set for the next generation, both legally and financially. The only real concern left was to rein the boy in, and make him as competent and mindful as Cal's father had taught him to be. He would settle for no less. He could not afford it. _One day, Caledon, when I die, all of this will fall upon your shoulders—the entire Hockley fortune and name will be your burden to bear_.

And it had been—down to the last banknote. He closed his eyes. It had been as if by overnight that he had become Atlas, world-weary and broken, instead of the adventurous Pursues he had so foolishly yearned to be in his youth. For the family legacy was one of great responsibility, and one, Cal knew, that required sacrifice. _Just as Marcus will soon learn, in time, now that he and the others have returned_.

He looked again at the face in the mirror. Forty-seven years. Forty-seven _wasted_ years. And what had he to show for them? This mansion, which had been extended and added with a layer of lavishness during his tenure of it? An accumulation of wealth to an already wealthy name? The continued fortitude of Hockley Steel? It had all been a heavy price for that which he truly wanted; he had even sacrificed his sight, having now been made dependent on a pair of spectacles to actually _see_. Spectacles! Cal shook his head. For when he looked in the mirror, he imagined himself the way he was before…

But there was no use in thinking about it—not now, since it was too late. Seventeen years too late, in fact.

Cursing himself, he turned away from the mirror and summoned his valet.

…

Going through accounts and checking the latest on the New York Stock Exchange had already taken up half his morning before Cal noticed that the time for breakfast had already passed. Not that he needed it, anyway. The very thought of food made him ill, not to mention that it would do nothing to ease his splitting headache. In fact, he believed it would only worsen his condition, should he indulge in anything before his hangover dissipated. Cal mentally shook his head, and pulled his spectacles away from his face. No, it would not do to think of _anything_, save for the mountain of work that lay before him.

He barely glanced at one of the company's tax statements before a timid knock at the door interrupted him. Cal did not even acknowledge it with the turning of his head, for he knew her knock all too well. "You may come in, Charlotte," he said, in the most pleasant tone he could muster.

The door opened not a moment later, as a subdued Charlotte entered, closing the door quietly behind her.

Cal barely took notice of her, his eyes never leaving the statement in hand. "I assume that you wish to speak with me on a matter of some import?" he queried, his mild expression causing her to flush, and he almost scoffed at her childlike innocence. Still ever the naïve and trusting child he had taken in. But one, he knew, that was so incomparably different from the rest of his ungrateful brood. It was almost a mercy that she was so innocent, since Cal himself had long been hardened with the knowledge of the cruelties of the world in his youth. He had failed to instill those self-same qualities in his poor, adopted daughter—a failure, in which, he knew his father would surely scorn. _If the bastard were still here, that is_, he amended, thoughtfully, knowing well how much his father had despised the beauty a child from poverty-stricken Ireland would inevitably become. Money, not good breeding, had insured that.

For indeed, Charlotte Isabella Anne Hockley was a vision to behold. With her warm blue eyes and wavy, long blonde hair, she was quite a beauty among the upper reaches of society; and Cal knew, from almost when she had made the transition from child to woman, that Charlotte would become a marvelous temptation for all of the eligible bachelors, even though everyone knew that she was not a Hockley by blood.

Cal almost glowered at the sharp, stinging reminder of it. A few of the _Old_ _Guard_ had remained, to his present irritation, dead-set against the idea of any man of good family considering in aligning himself with such a woman, no matter if Caledon Hockley himself claimed her a daughter and heaped a sizable dowry on her. Most, however, Cal could only grant, albeit grudgingly, were accepting of Charlotte, given the tragic events of that night, when the largest ship in the world sank. Some had even commended him for taking Charlotte in, and raising her as one of his own.

Turning away from his work, he looked up at Charlotte, finally acknowledging her and that uncertain face—so full of patience and understanding—which reminded him so little of his other children, so little of himself and his own shortcomings. He retrieved his spectacles and looked at her, clearly, expectantly, and she had the grace to smile. Some had claimed her _touched_, almost belonging to another world entirely. It was, of course, expected, if not accepted, given how young she had been and having seen so much tragedy over the course of a single night.

She claimed to see those dead, as she heard them, and even spoke to them on occasion. Good God, once she had even claimed to have seen Cal's father, wandering aimlessly about the mill, mere months after his death. It had almost driven Cal to locking her in her room for three days, since all of such had transpired over dinner—in front of a few of his business associates, no less—when he had least expected it. It had taken only a sharp look and thinly-laced threat to cease her prattle. The threat of sending her away later that evening had only finished the job. Charlotte never spoke of it again, but the damage had already been done—long before that night.

For even before Nathan Hockley's death, a few in Cal's circle already knew of Charlotte's ability. She had been quite popular during the war, when so many of society's matrons lost their sons to so a valiant and noble a cause. Cal had been wholly embarrassed, if not mortified, by their asking to host Charlotte at some of their parties, since he refused to have her shown off like some sort of…_freak_ _show_, and yet he also refused to have her committed to an asylum. To have even a hint of madness in the family was something not to be publicly acknowledged, let alone be tolerated. It was one of the reasons for his having sent her away to a boarding school with the others, for he could not bring himself to accept her _ability_, could not ask her to see if she could find…

Setting the thought aside, he instead considered the young woman before him. "What is it, Charlotte?" he found himself asking again, those obsidian eyes resting upon her, questioningly.

Charlotte hesitated, though for only a moment, before finding her voice. "I wanted to see you before you left for the mill today," she said, almost inaudibly, and then took a step forward. Her light-blue skirt ruffled slightly by the movement, her plain white blouse complimenting her ivory-toned face. A single strand of gold escaped from her perfectly contrived bun, as her hands rested, rather furtively, behind her back, her eyes alight with some unnamed sentiment.

Cal almost frowned, for he noticed her hands' absence. Never had he seen them behind her back—not for so long, anyhow—since she always _spoke_ with her hands. "Charlotte?" he began, almost losing his patience, but she silenced him when she placed a tiny box, wrapped in navy-blue paper and tied with a gold ribbon, in front of him.

She smiled again. "Happy birthday, Daddy!" she exclaimed, no longer able to hide her amusement. She almost laughed at the slight surprise she saw resting on his face. "I had wanted to give this to you sooner, but you were still in bed this morning, during breakfast," she said by way of explanation, as she rambled on about his gift. "But I do hope you like it, since I could think of nothing else to give you, even though I gave it much thought."

Cal almost ignored her, finding her soft-spoken words close to the mindless chatter he so despised of women. He vaguely considered the gift before him. It was no bigger than the size of an eggcup, and yet was beautifully composed of his favorite colors. Knowing Charlotte, she had probably wrapped it herself, as well. How thoughtful. He doubted his other children would be so considerate, since he could not recall a time when they had gotten him anything for his birthday. Celebrating it had only been a front, as were the holidays, which Cal often found himself footing the bill for most of his gifts his children had _given_ to him. Only Charlotte had made it a priority to remember him; and for that, Cal knew that she would be the only one who truly wished him a very happy birthday.

He took the box in hand, holding it, considering it, before untying the gold ribbon with his daughter's encouragement. He tore at the paper, the navy-blue shreds falling atop his desk and papers as a small black box was all that remained. Curiously, he noted how it fit in the palm of his hand. It could not be a pocket watch, surely; Charlotte had already given him one at Christmas only a couple of years before. No, that which the box contained was something else entirely, as Cal could scarcely guess its contents.

Its back hinge opened slowly, the darkness within giving way to the light from without. Cal's eyes narrowed, his curiosity overcoming his silent discernment. For there, as the last of the morning light penetrated the window, lay a pair of gold cufflinks, their luster enhanced by the light. He took both in hand, examining each. There was nothing special or wonderful about them. They were a simple pair of cufflinks with his initials engraved on their flat, rounded surfaces. No diamonds. No clever embossing. No intricate detail. They were completely lackluster, if the truth were told. And yet, when Cal looked up from the cufflinks to see Charlotte's smiling face, he knew the gift had meant _something_—to her, at least.

"They are lovely, Charlotte," he found himself say to her, though was unsure how he managed to sound so appreciative. His soft-spoken sincerity was almost hollow to his own ears. But he had somehow convinced her of it regardless, just as he promised her that he would wear them that very day.

"I am so happy you like them!" she said. "I was honestly afraid that you would not, since you enjoy your diamond ones so." She then drew close to his side and took one of them in her right hand. She turned it so that its back was facing her. She then allowed Cal to see for himself what had lain hidden without his notice. "I had the jeweler to engrave a sunrise, since I believed it would serve as a reminder that you still have many sunrises before you." She dropped the cufflink in his hand, and kissed his cheek. "I love you so much, Daddy. I hope you have a wonderful birthday today."

She left soon after, with a promise from Cal that he would return early that evening to celebrate—that was, after sharing a few drinks with some colleagues at their respective club—with _all_ of his family. For it was expected that he come home, and thus be wholly taken aback by the _surprise_ birthday party he would unknowingly come upon. Charlotte was almost as bad as his mother had once been, with her surprises and good-natured gestures of love and affection. For, after all, Charlotte was the only child of his who had _ever_ willingly voiced such in the privacy of his study. None of the others had been so forthcoming.

He thought of her for a moment, before his thoughts shifted to another—to another, whose face was a little younger than Charlotte's, as such would forever, unfortunately, be—before he looked down at the cufflinks, the sunlight almost turning them to molten gold in his hand.

…

It was late when Cal departed from the club. He muttered a rather ungentlemanly curse when he almost stumbled over his own feet. God, how many drinks had he had this time around? Several at least, he knew. He had certainly lost count after Raymond Moore whose sadly, now-deceased father had once been a business associate of Cal and his father's, had offered to foot the entirety of the bill, given that it _was_ Cal's birthday and all. And Cal had not begrudged the fellow of his _generosity_, no matter that most in his company had only—since most of his companions were, shamefully enough, a generation younger than Cal—were eager to merely enjoy themselves for the sake of it.

And yet, he had not intended to stay with them for as long he had, since he recalled, if only faintly now, that he had told them—by way of an excuse, of course, since he had no desire to do what he told them he intended to do—that he had to be on his way, that his family were planning a little _surprise_ for him back at home. His fellows had only offered him their congratulations, as well as their fond farewells, by buying another round—or was it three?—of drinks. And Cal, of course, had been unable to resist another drink, which had turned into another and another as the night progressed…

He shook his head as he made his way to where his chauffeur awaited him, and nearly cursed himself with every step. Already he felt the sickening effects of his already intoxicated state, which did nothing but hinder his senses.

It was a shame, really; indulging himself as he did. He had done so for the past seventeen years, as he slipped, more and more, into the comforting arms of drink. His love affair had been the Green Faerie, at first, but then she had been banned from the States. Not that such had stopped Cal from enjoying her company, now and again. He had friends in the Motherland, after all, who _happily_ supplied him with his nocturnal lover, whenever he called for her. _Absinthe_ had been her name, and was one, Cal found, that reminded him of another word entirely. For it was the _absence_ of another that had driven him down a course of desolation and drink. No, he had never desired a green faerie but a red one. Or rather, if he were to be more precise, one that had _red_ _hair_.

He glowered at the thought of his mental correction, and quickly shoved it to the back on his mind. He was terribly late, he realized. Though exactly _how_ late he knew not—well past midnight, was his guess. He had failed to bring his pocket watch; but even then it would not help him, considering how blurred and hazy his vision presently was—even with his sorry excuse of spectacles, which he had also left. He had stayed out late on purpose. In truth, he had no wish to celebrate his birthday any more than he already had. It was already late as it was, and he knew that his delay only marked an end to an uneventful evening.

Charlotte would be disheartened, certainly; whereas his other children would only feel inconvenienced by the whole affair, in having to wait for him and with nothing to show for it when he failed to make an appearance. It had almost been _worth_ staying out, since he could well imagine their chagrined expressions—Charlotte's, of course, being the exception. He vaguely glanced at the cufflinks she had given him, for he had worn them; he had not broken his promise to her on that, at least, since her gift had been the only true gesture of kindness shown him that day—the many rounds of drinks excluded—since _everyone_ benefited from such a _thoughtful_ _gift_. But no, Cal knew that Charlotte had been hurt by his failure to show, as she eagerly waited to surprise him, that crushing disappointment growing with each passing moment of anticipation, before it consumed her and she retired, defeated and heartbroken, for the night.

He would have to apologize to her, albeit in his own way. A man like Caledon Hockley _never_ apologized to anyone lesser than he, not even to one he considered family. No, he would find a way to make up for hurting her, though he had no intention in doing the same for his other children.

As he considered this, he soon realized that he had passed by his chauffer. Though strangely enough, he cared not; his _servant_ could wait. He thus continued forward, walking, thinking as the dull, sickeningly-yellow colored street lamps and the darkness of the night consumed every conscious and unconscious thought he had. He looked up to the night's sky, finding, rather oddly, that he could actually _see_ the stars. He gave pause at the sight of them. He could not recall the last time he had actually _looked_ _up_ to see them. As a boy, perhaps. He shook his head.

Actually, he _knew_ exactly when he had last seen them. For the last time he had _willingly_ looked up to see them, had been that night. Where amidst the screams and stifled, dying cries for rescue had he looked up when the last of those muffled pleas had been silenced by the cold, icy waters that had taken a thousand lives and more. He had looked up, despite his companions' in the lifeboat attempt to retain some semblance of warmth as they tried to distance themselves from the many silent figures of death floating listlessly around them. A woman had held Charlotte, trying to keep the girl warm whilst Cal, still very much awake and full of denial, paid no heed to the child's welfare as he thought of another, his eyes searching more than the stars themselves—they searched in the darkness of the waters beyond. He had searched his soul that night, and realized, by the cruel light of day, the mistake he had made.

Cal almost stopped at the memory of his searching for her, his inconstant Rose, recalling how he, in a last, vain attempt, tried to find her among the wretched souls who toiled in the _steerage_ side of the _Carpathia_. He had not found her, although he had accidentally mistaken another for her. But he had been sure that she was there. Almost. He would have found her if she had been, he often reasoned to himself. He believed his instinctual knowledge in her survival had been wrong, as he grudgingly reminded himself of such every day since.

Forcing the thought of Rose from his mind, he continued on, walking aimlessly down the street. He knew not how long he walked, his drunken gait almost retaining a semblance of its former bearing, though his mind was still far from acquiring its sobriety. He glanced down at the black pavement, and knew that his present behavior would shame his father.

His father.

Ha!

Nathan Hockley was _dead_—deeply entombed and left moldering in the Hockley family mausoleum. It was where _every_ Hockley was entombed: a private shrine to former gods of industry who realized their mortality only all too late, and was where Cal himself would one day be laid to rest, when he discovered that his own immortality had been a farce. It was what was expected for a noble son, after all, to follow in his progenitor's footsteps. It was what he was expected that he do—what he wanted to do—or should _want_ to do.

But then, such was, of course, however, a lie, since Caledon Hockley was nothing like his father. Nor that of his grandfather—not at first, anyhow. The company flourished under his direction, certainly, but the firm head that Nathan Hockley had been for business had not produced a carbon copy likeness in Cal, who had taken the company in another direction entirely. Whereas such, Cal would, if only by his will after death, be buried elsewhere—over three hundred miles away, if he had his way.

He almost laughed at the irony of it, if not at the terrible burden he would haply place upon his family. Charlotte would understand, of that he was certain, though the others…_Can certainly go to Hell, for all I care, since the next forty-seven years of _mylife_ will be as dull and uneventful as the first_, he thought morosely, as it was then that something—or rather, _someone_, by the size of its silhouette and shape—caught his eye in the alleyway before him. His eyes narrowed in a half-attempt to clear his hazy vision, for what stood before him was certainly a most welcome sight indeed.

For truly, the pensive creature before him was a beauty to behold. Long, white-blonde hair cascaded like a waterfall down her shoulders, clashing heavily against the river of black that swathed her curvaceously slender figure. Her eyes were as deep and fathomless as the darkest part of a starless sea, as her face—dear God, her face!—was perfection itself. Cal could not discern a single flaw, despite the illumination, albeit dim and a poor substitute for real sunlight, cast upon it from a nearby streetlamp. But regardless of his obvious impediment, he could still see that this woman was one who rivaled that of the most known and sought-after beauties in his circles and beyond, since her beauty had left him utterly speechless.

As such, he afforded the silent woman before him a most congenial smile, before stepping forward to address himself properly.

The nameless beauty only smiled, however. "A pleasant evening, is it not, Caledon? Or would you prefer Cal, as everyone else appears to call you?" she offered instead, before he had the chance to introduce himself.

Cal shook his head, as if sharply surprised by her acknowledging him so intimately—a woman he had, surely, never before met, for he would have surely remembered such beauty, even whilst drunk—as she had blatantly addressed him by his given name. Her accent was one of the Old World—Eastern European, he surmised, but could not be sure. It put him on his guard, however, for this was no ordinary street whore, desiring to be bedded for a cheap thrill. He vaguely thought of what had happened in Chicago only a month before—a massacre on Valentine's Day—but then shook his head, finding his sense of worry that to be of a weak-willed woman's.

Straightening himself, he summoned every ounce of his composure as he addressed this most strange and alluring creature with that of a gentleman's regard. "Madam, I do not profess to know how you know me, but if you could, perchance, tell me how you do, then I should gladly appreciate it."

The lady in question merely laughed in return. "Oh, but _everyone_ knows of you, Mr. Hockley, even _I_. And no, we have never met until this night," she confirmed, as if reading his thoughts. She stepped forward then, the alley's shadows no longer obscuring her. "But indeed, I must say that the rumors were true: your _beauty_ precedes you. I have been waiting for you to leave your gentlemanly companions all night."

Blinking in surprise, Cal found himself mentally taking a step away from her. She was tempting him, to be sure. He openly smirked at her at her audacity; it was a proposition, of that he had no doubt, and was one, he acknowledged, to be gladly accepted. He was almost half-inclined to accept her offer, no matter his not even having the pleasure of knowing her name. He had bedded European women before—French, Russian, Italian, and yes, even the occasional English slut, as he often found English girls to be absolutely deplorable in bed—but never one as beautiful and inviting as this.

He very nearly accepted. Almost. For when he ventured to say _yes_, something else inside of him declared the contrary—shouting it to the highest levels of his subconscious. Cal frowned. Whether it was a sudden stroke of guilt or just a memory, conjured at the most inopportune moment, he could not be sure, but he did know for a certainty that he envisioned Rose, with her lovely face and stormy-blue eyes, standing before him instead. He looked away from the imaginary sight. For even whilst drunk, Cal knew he was deluding himself, recognizing the beauty before him to be a thousand times more enticing than Rose could ever hope to be—but, God, he wanted Rose instead; for if he could have a choice, he would choose her—damn all of the other beautiful women in the world, who threw themselves at him as thus.

He failed to notice the sharp of look of anger glitter in his companion's eyes before he set all thoughts of Rose aside. He was on the verge of declining her offer until he, finally looking upon her, saw _Rose_ instead. Without thinking, he stepped forward, a strange mixture of disbelief and surprise on his face.

"Rose?" he whispered, frowning as he tried to clear his mind of the alcohol clouding it. He shook his head, half in doubt, his dark eyes locking with her blue ones. He almost fell to his knees, almost uttered her name a thousand times over, which he so often did during the many nights since losing her. He instead took another step forward, half-taken by the face which had not aged in the seventeen years since he had last seen it. She had not aged with time, wholly untouched by the hand of Time itself. He took another step forward, inexorably drawn into her dark embrace, before taking her into his arms and kissing her. Kissing her! Rose. His Rose, come back from beyond, warm and alive, and having defeated the cold, icy waters of death.

He felt her arms coil around him, sliding against his back, cold and serpentine, her sharp nails digging into it, urging him out of the light, and into the darkness beyond. And Cal relented, since he could want or do little else. He almost groaned when she broke the kiss, her lips lingering across his face and chin until continuing down his neck, before resting at the base of it. Cal closed his eyes in unbidden ecstasy, all thoughts of the other woman gone. Perhaps she had not been there at all. Perhaps he had imagined her there, since he held Rose instead. _His_ _precious, precious_ _Rose_. He did not feel the sharp sting of pain at his throat until it was too late.

Gasping, his eyes opened in silent shock, his voice failing him as he could not speak or cry out. A sudden onslaught of liquid pain coursed down from the wound upon his throat, running across his chest, staining his shirt and waistcoat with the crimson darkness of his own blood. He tried to free himself from the arms that held him, but was unable. It felt as if he were bound by a pillar of stone, cold and resolute, as a cold, merciless tongue lapped at the blood drawn from his throat. He closed his eyes, distantly hearing the bitch of a siren that held him. She had not been Rose; it had all been an illusion—one that he had foolishly allowed him to believe in!

And now, he was paying the price—whatever such may be—for his stupidity. If only he had returned home, when he should have…Now, he was not so sure that he ever would return home. He vaguely felt her lift her mouth from his neck, her lips resting close to his ear. He nearly shuddered when he heard her speak.

Smiling at her work, his nameless assailant turned his face and met his fading gaze. Blood marred her otherwise perfect countenance, an equally scarlet-stained hand tracing over his paling face in mock comfort. "You may be a little old, _Lubirea mea_, but your beauty is worth saving for an eternity." She then took and bit her own wrist as she placed it against his mouth, and bade him drink.

Cal almost gagged as the crimson coldness drew down his throat like a poison, the metallic taste bitter upon his tongue. He tried to reject the foreign taste, almost spitting it out before she closed his mouth with her hand. He heard her command that he swallow, as her voice—that damned voice!—seemed to echo in his thoughts. He heard her utter Rose's name, elucidating that, in her native tongue, the name would be something, most unappealing to Cal. He retorted with an insult to her beauty.

She only smiled in return, promising him that, "The next forty-seven years will surely not be as _dull and uneventful_ as the first, of that I can promise you."

"Damn you to Hell," he muttered, knowing well that her words were a mockery to his previous thoughts. The bitch had read his mind! He almost grabbed for her lovely, pale throat, so that he could squeeze the life out of it, but felt only the cold night air between his fingers instead. Cal closed his eyes, utterly defeated. She had disappeared within the shadows from whence she came. He shivered, the wound at his throat almost searing in its intensity. He groaned, the entirety of his body aching. He felt as if he were dying. He probably was, given the amount of blood the bitch had taken from him. But then, he half-wondered, why had she given him hers? It made no sense. But then, nothing made sense. Not anymore.

Either way, Cal reflected silently, it had been a hell of a birthday present. "Beware the Ides of March," he murmured ironically, choking back on his own blood as it threatened to escape him. He cried out then, a new sensation of pain overshadowing his current agony. God. He was going to die; he knew it from the moment _she_ had left him on the ground, her cryptic words still echoing in his thoughts. The next forty-seven years. What a joke. His father would not find it funny, surely, although Rose certainly would.

Rose.

If he were to die, then he would damn well at least think of something other than the one who had left him to die. He conjured every memory he had of her: from when they had first met, to, unfortunately, the last time he had held her out of love and not out of anger or frustration. He would not think of their last meeting, when he had pursued her into the waters flooding the Grand Staircase. He could not. He had never come to terms that it had, perhaps, been _he_ who had killed her that night. He could never bring himself to consider it, let alone acknowledge it.

Instead, he thought of the day when she had accepted his proposal. She had been so formal with him then, so cold, like a rose frozen in the midst of spring, as if their engagement were a mere business transaction than anything, and perhaps it had been—at least to Rose. He had known all along that she had never loved him, but he at least _had_ her. She had been his. _His_. And then that boy had come into their lives. No. He would not think of Dawson. Not now. The bastard's death had been his one consolation in losing Rose, since neither of them would have her completely.

He whispered her name, in spite of his shuddered breathing. It would not be long now; he could already feel the darkness already upon him, his heartbeat slowing to a crawl. He would be dead before morning. He would be dead, and his children—his eldest son not yet even eighteen—left with the estate and family fortune. They would squander it all in a matter of years, if not months. Cal almost smiled; his thoughts no longer with his children, but with the one who had eluded him, even in death. Now, at least, if there was some form of universal justice, he would find her.

"Rose," he voice shuddered, his heartbeat slowing, almost faint now as he thought of her. Of Rose. _Thump, thump_. Of her lovely blue eyes. _Thump, thump, thump_. Of that fiery red hair_. Thump, thump_. Of her face, as pale and as cold as ice. _Thump_. Of her lips—which he had first kissed, when she had agreed to marry him—as they would, never again, draw breath. _Thump, thump, thump_. Of her engagement ring that she had left, next to the safe that night. _Thump, thump_. Of the ring, which he now grasped in his waistcoat pocket. _Thump_.

He smiled as though in triumph when he felt it, for he had kept since that night and beyond, always by his side, for the past seventeen years. It had been a mercy that he had put it in his waistcoat pocket and not in his coat that night. Otherwise, he would have had two things to make a claim on, although the _Heart of the Ocean_ had been nothing, compared to the ring he had given her; for she had _worn_ _it_—_his_ _ring_—upon her finger, even when she had assuredly felt herself loathing its cold, binding presence, since such, had assuredly, reminded her of _him_.

He almost allowed a single tear to fall at the thought of her rejecting him for that loathsome…_gutter_ _rat_. But he would not cry. He had not cried since the day he had lost her, and that had been in the privacy of his own, makeshift cabin. He had not shed a tear for a single human being since, since his heart had died, long before tonight. It had died along with Rose.

He uttered her name once more; where, with his final breath, he cried out to her, as it was with her name—still so timeless and treasured upon his lips, no matter his hatred of her betraying him and leaving him in death—that his heart, one that had beat only as a muscle and nothing more for seventeen years, stopped.

…

**Author's Note: ****Well, this is the first chapter to what will probably be a fairly lengthy story. I just wanted to get this first chapter out, so that I could see where it goes. But indeed, judging by it already, it is going to be a long one, to be sure.**

**I hope everyone has enjoyed what I have of it thus far. I also apologize in advance for any grammatical errors. I honestly looked through this only once, so there may be something that I missed. I shall correct it if I see anything.**

**But indeed, this is going to be a story predominantly about Cal, as well as those who are/were a part of his life. I think everyone shall soon see what I mean by that soon enough! ;D Oh, and I will, also, confess that this is probably the first time I have **_**ever**_** written about anyone vomiting in such detail. I actually had to **_**think**_** about it. But it appears that Cal is going to go through quite a bit of torture before this story is over. Don't get me wrong: I **_**love**_** Cal. Indeed, I prefer him over Jack, since, as this opening chapter suggests, as well as the summary itself, may hint at a certain relationship later on.**

**And Cal is rather nasty in this first chapter, isn't he? I feel sorry for Charlotte, honestly, as well as Cal****'s thoughts on women in general. I decided to keep his repulsion of the English, since he seemed not to favor them when **_**Titanic**_** was sinking. Really, he can be quite crude sometimes. But then, he would not be Cal if he was not, I suppose…**

**Also, some of what was mentioned, about Cal mistaking another girl for Rose, is taken from the film's deleted scenes. James Cameron also made mention in his commentary of the last deleted scene that Cal realized his mistake all too late, since he realized that he still cared for Rose, and could not make amends. I also plan to make references to a few other scenes in future chapters.**

**Now, onto some things to note:**

**On the mysterious woman who, assuredly, was a creature of the night, hails from, what I am sure****, many now suspect, Romania. Cal fails to discern which country, but at least he was dead-on with her being Eastern European. I chose a Romanian vampire, mainly for my love of Dracula, but also for the folklore surrounding the **_**Strigoii**_**. Such shall also be addressed in a later chapter, I promise. Also, if I got the translation right, **_**Lubirea mea**_**, means 'My dear' in Romanian.**

**Absinthe was a very popular alcoholic drink in both America and in Europe, though mainly in Europe, at the turn of the Nineteenth Century. It was soon banned in most countries by the beginning of the Twentieth. America banned importation of Absinthe in 1912, although it was never officially banned in Britain. Actually, from my understanding, Britain has **_**never**_** banned the distribution of Absinthe, hence, Cal's ability to **_**acquire**_** it from there. It also may be interesting to note that the 1992 Francis Ford Coppola version of **_**Dracula**_** features the drink, as well as the mention of the Green Faerie. Absinthe was also mentioned in **_**From Hell**_**, but that is an entirely different story altogether…**

**Oh, and lest I forget, my choosing the Ides of March for Cal's birthday and posting such on the aforementioned date, was done entirely on purpose. Shakespeare…Gotta love the Bard! But then, it also gives me the edge needed to tell part of this story in the months preceding the Crash of '29.**

**But again, I hope everyone enjoys this very dark and twisted story. I realize that the last bit may have been a little rushed, for which I greatly apologize if such is the case, and that this idea may have been done before. I hope not. The idea of a vampiric Cal is just very tantalizing to me for some strange reason. o.0;**

**Well, until the next chapter!**

— **Kittie**

**March 17****th****, 2010: I also wanted to make a note that this chapter has been updated and revised from the original I had posted. It seems that I missed some errors during my first revision—quite a few, actually. I apologize for any inconvenience they may have caused. Hopefully, everything is now complete and corrected.**


	2. Chapter Two: The Morning After

Disclaimer: I do not own _Titanic_, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to James Cameron, Paramount Pictures, Twentieth Century Fox, and their respected owners.

Summary: He had always possessed her, the claim on her made, long before either realised the consequences derived from it. For a man like Caledon Hockley is not one to give up that which he claims so easily—not even beyond the grave. AU

His Dark Possession

Chapter Two

…

A woman of no more than seventeen stood at the end of a long, pristine corridor, aligned with various paintings—paintings, which were surely works of art—that suited her taste, albeit contrasted heavily against the white and purple pinstripe ensemble that she wore. Monet and Degas—Impressionists both, of a period from not so long ago—however, could not rival the beauty the woman so inherently possessed, as she stood among their works with a carefully discerning eye, her vibrant red hair and blue eyes—as deep and beautiful as the sea itself, a true vision of those Pre-Raphaelite women, so long adored by Rossetti and his circle of seven with all their fine artistry. As it was such a woman of infinite splendor that finally looked upon the one marveling at her in awestruck silence, the radiance of that ivory-drawn face the last thing seen, before darkness overcame the one who envisioned such timeless beauty in his mind.

For if there had been a point in Caledon Hockley's life, in which he placed the feelings and interests of another before his own, then such a moment had already passed, where his last conscious thought had been that of Rose as darkness, silence, and the threat of the unknown were the only things that Cal registered in his mind when he felt a sudden sensation of vertigo overcome the remaining fragments of his sanity. The constant sway and rocking—as if he was on a ship and not laying prostrate, as he seemed to recall himself being, on solid ground—his body endured, tormented his constitution. He groaned at the sudden onslaught of pain in his head and stomach, before closing his eyes in a half-attempt to stave off the need to vomit. He had suffered this affliction many times before, certainly, and he almost laughed at the irony of his situation now. For even dead, Cal found himself succumbing to the sickness that so often came with his overindulgence in drink.

He prepared himself for the sudden blow to his gut, prepared to fall on his knees—the great Caledon Hockley, emperor of cold, American steel, powerless against the upcoming surge from within. He almost cried out, the dizziness in his head intensifying to the point of madness. And yet, the contents within, as if by some miracle, remained in the pit of his stomach, as a cold, soothing wind fell against his face, the pain within, strangely, abating.

Cal sighed against the outgoing current, feeling a semblance of peace in the shadows of his thoughts. His eyes opened, halfheartedly, the darkness surrounding him tranquil, almost comforting him in a way. He almost lavished in its soothing presence, almost gave in to it, his mind nearly slipping away with the tide…

But, God, _where_ was he? He looked about himself in an attempt to find some semblance of familiarity, but only darkness, and darkness alone, greeted him—darkness and the nothingness that so often came with a night's heavy drinking. It was seldom that he ever remembered anything from his drunken nighttime revelries—most especially, things in which he believed finally his, that he could not have in reality—but this was different. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. He vaguely registered a thousand possibilities and more, thought of every rational explanation his intoxicated mind could offer, though only a few stood out in the center of his thoughts:

Was this what death was like, a great precipice of…nothingness? Was he even dead? And if so, was this Heaven or Hell? He'd once heard Charlotte say, in passing, that those who passed on from this life saw a bright tunnel of light at the end, where lost loved ones were forever reunited—a reward, surely, for a lifetime's endless toil. Though, as for those who did not see such divine wonder, since most came short of glory and the forgiveness of God…

Cal assumed what had not been said by his daughter, since only pain and darkness awaited those not bound for the light. He had learned as much from his Calvinist upbringing—not that such mattered to him then, though now...—that Hell was a place of darkness and of pain, an eternal punishment for those truly wicked at heart. And the gnawing, the gnawing of flesh, still on the bone, in the darkness beyond the light…

It was a vision that had never quite left him in his youth, even when he had forgone any interest in bettering himself, since his weekly attendance at the First Presbyterian Church, after all, had only been for appearance's sake, and not for the wellbeing of his soul—if he even had one, that was.

In truth, Cal had no interest in God or the Devil, nor in all that was considered good or evil, or even in Heaven or Hell, for that matter. He never held a great admiration for One stationed, high above himself; he really only cared for his own, transient existence, and not that of some _God,_ of whom he had never before met. Indeed, who was to say that _He_ was even real? Cal wondered, idly, knowing well that his thoughts bordered on blasphemy. His mother would surely have a stroke—if she still lived, that was—by her beloved son's musings, just as his father—of whom Cal had long suspected a private atheist, though never fully proved—had instilled only the cares and troubles of the world in him. As such, with two parents, whose conflicting beliefs had long fought over the custody of their only son's soul, Cal, himself, remained indifferent, not caring for either extreme, since atheism, in and of itself, was, still, ultimately, only a _belief_.

Though yet, as he lingered in the darkness of his own thoughts, he suspected that his mother, weak-minded and frail though she had been in life, had, perhaps, known something that his father had not; for if this was indeed Hell, then it was a very lonely and derelict place indeed. Though on the contrary, if this place was not Hell, then _what was it_? Such questions consumed him for the better part of forever, since time, apparently, was nonexistent in this realm of emptiness and uncertainty.

Shaking his head, he aborted such notions when he noticed a change in his otherwise bleak surroundings. In the distance, he could almost swear that he had heard the faintest sound of music. He strained against the deafening silence to hear it, the merry strains of a violin and its accompanying strings contradicting the cold, black imprisoning miasma that kept him from such undeniable beauty. _Since it is the only thing of real substance, compared to a place such as this_, he thought sardonically, as he made his way toward it.

He walked for what seemed like hours, the pervading stillness encumbering him, hindering his pursuit. He staggered against it, blinded by the shadows which clung so readily to him. They almost felt natural, like a second skin. Cal scorned at the very thought of them surrounding him, _touching_ him as those steerage rats had once done. He was not a creature of darkness. Good God! What had that little slut done to him when she had bitten him, her warm blood cooling upon his paling lips and tongue? And strangely enough, he could still taste it, that wretched blood, its bitter, metallic flavor a shameful reminder of his foolishness.

_The next forty-seven years…_

What a crock load of—

The music interrupted the remainder of his thoughts, however, as what was surely Offenbach's _Orpheus,_ played in the distance. Cal had heard the movement—several times, in fact—before, though he really only now recalled having heard it _that_ _night_, as well. The vague remembrance of it was almost a blow to him, since his thoughts, again, returned to Rose, and the final moments he had shared with her. He closed his eyes, trying to blot out the memory of her flinching at his touch, of a flooded Grand Staircase, of two retreating figures, and of his chasing after them with a pistol in hand. He remembered her pathetic reasons for jumping out of that lifeboat and staying aboard, heard her declarations of _love_ for that…_gutter_ _rat_. He also remembered her screams when he came after them.

It had been a momentary madness, certainly, for he never would have been so careless, as to cause her any real harm. He had been fortunate that his aim had been poor that night, however. Otherwise, he doubted that he would have missed, striking that sensuous body which carried a priceless diamond—his ultimate expression of love—in the pocket of his coat. He often reasoned that he had no intention in harming Rose, that he hadn't aimed Lovejoy's pistol at _her_, but at another entirely. Cal shook his head. Killing Dawson would have solved _everything_. For if he had, he could have, he knew, retrieved Rose, dragging her away from that gutter rat's corpse and keeping her by _his_ side until he had assured himself that she was in a lifeboat—preferably _with_ him—and no doomed to inhabit some damned watery grave. But such had not happened, had it? He had been unable to save her, having failed both her and himself ultimately. He could not even say, for a certainty, that he hadn't _tried_ to shoot at her; he only wanted to believe that he hadn't.

The thought remained with him as the music intensified, heightening to a brilliant crescendo that left Cal bewildered by its origin, since he could not see, but only hear its melodious composition. It plagued every fiber of his being, his failure to discern its location impelling a frown, which deepened upon that stony visage. He scowled at its elusive sound; for indeed, _Orpheus_ was certainly in the Underworld, hopelessly black, depressing hell this place invariably was. And for a moment, perhaps, he almost compared himself to the demigod, since both had lost their brides to tragedy; however, Orpheus, at least, _had_ the chance to reclaim his love. Cal could not attest to the same, since his situation was comparatively different to that of the Thracian king's. He had lost Rose, and a part of him doubted—the sensible part, surely—that he would get her back. His expression darkened at the thought.

Best not think of it—not now, anyway—since he had yet to depart from this stagnant void. He would surely go blind if he did not escape from it—that, or succumb to madness, whichever came first. He made a face, all thoughts of Rose dissipating—at least, momentarily. He was bound to conjure the memory of her again, paint a portrait of her in his mind, since memory, apparently, was all he had at the moment.

It was in the midst of these musings—for he was, if in part, still thinking of her, of his precious, deceitful, heartless Rose—that he heard something, a new sound, in his earshot. The muffled chatter of people caused him to snap his head in their direction, or what would have been in their direction, rather, since only shadows occupied the space from which their voices lingered. Cal stared into the darkness, his dark eyes searching, as if piercing through the heavy obscurity which separated him from all human contact, and yet finding nothing but the emptiness which consumed them. Damn it. Would he _ever_ escape from this hell? He looked up in askance before closing his eyes, his thoughts, shifting to the last moment of his life, the dim, orange glow of the street lights flickering, almost fading in his mind…

And then there was light—brilliant, blinding white light—that nearly brought him to his knees. Cal opened his eyes, his face awash with pain and shock as the darkness retreated, disappearing completely, where only light, and light alone, remained. He nearly groaned against its searing intensity. He felt as if his flesh was on fire, the air in his lungs trapped against the acrid feel. He rolled his eyes. As if he had a need to breathe _now_. But strangely, he found himself able to do anything _but_ breathe. He pondered his situation for another moment before the voices, once again, commanded his attention. For there, beyond the light, Cal discerned the shapes and simple movements of those who had eluded him in the darkness. His eyes narrowed in an attempt to see beyond the blinding white radiance that obscured them until, even the light itself, dissipated and left only that which had been hidden from his sight all along.

All thoughts and cynicism were suddenly cast aside, the truth of what lay before him a shattering reality. Cal looked away, almost in disbelief. It could not be. It simply…could not be. _Could_ _it_? Turning once again, albeit slowly, he finally acknowledged that which he had long hoped, but had only found to be merely a thing of dreams and nothing more. For once again, he found himself standing amongst those he had long believed dead, their faces unaltered by time, their evening attire a thing of grandeur from an almost forgotten age. His eyes widened in disbelief, his gaping expression speaking volumes as he stood amongst his former companions by the First Class dining room's stairs of what could only belong to a ship as grand and luxurious as _Titanic_.

Nothing had changed in the seventeen years since the ship's sinking, the freshly painted walls were, still, a pristine white, the carpets as lush and as colorful as when they had been first laid, just as the presence of water, which had once filled this lavish room, was completely nonexistent. Cal stared at the room, utter amazement sketched upon his aged features. He could not believe it, could not accept it, for this had been the same room, half-filled with water, that he had last seen _her_, running off with…

Cursing his lingering thoughts, he set the unpleasant memory aside, and looked about him, marveling at such beauty that he never believed he would see again. And he wondered, if only in passing, if _he_ had been the cause for its destruction. _I had tempted more than fate that day we boarded, it seems, with my comment on this ship being unsinkable_, he thought, a little wryly, before one of his hands—one surely full of doubt and uncertainty—reached out and touched a nearby column, the cold, wooden feel of its intricate crown molding giving him a shock. Cal pulled it back as if burned. _My God, it is real—all of it_, he considered wildly. He could scarcely compose himself, as the vision before him was as real and tangible as when he had actually been there, for _Titanic_ was as beautiful and captivating as when Cal had first lain eyes upon the floating palace.

_I don't see what all the fuss is about; it doesn't like any bigger than the _Mauritania.

He almost snickered at the retort, for he had not forgotten Rose's comment upon her seeing _Titanic_ for the first time. She had been so completely…unimpressed by its size and grandeur. _Blasé_, Cal seemed to recall his describing her opinion on other things. And yet, he knew that it had all been a front, for Rose had been just as captivated by the ship as he had been—perhaps even more. He shook his head at the memory, his attention, once more, returning to the ship that had claimed those who passed by in front of him.

He vaguely noticed that the band's music had shifted from _Orpheus_, to a pleasant serenade instead—dinner music, surely—that would certainly appease his former companions—if they even _listened_ to it, that was. Cal suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. Truly, one would imagine that something _new_ could be played at dinner, not that he cared for jazz, or that sort of thing. He almost balked at the notion of the White Star Line's band playing something so horrid and low. Only the dregs of society dared enjoy such a horrendous cacophony of sound. It was not even composed, let alone be considered as _music_. _Rose certainly would have enjoyed it_, he thought bitterly, the ghost of her returning to the forefront of his mind.

As it was such a ghost…

Cal abruptly turned to those passing by, his eyes falling upon their familiar, middle-aged faces: John Jacob Astor—the one man, who had trumped him on the ship in wealth—and Benjamin Guggenheim. It was _almost_ a pleasure to see them again, and in their evening wear, no less. He half-smiled. It had been quite some time since he had been in the company of _true_ society and not simply indulging himself in that of their sons'. Cal had not been overly impressed by either Astor or Guggenheim's children, as they were naught but spoiled brats, mainly. Guggenheim's daughters were a poor comparison to Charlotte in manner and appearance, and Astor's sons…Cal refrained from imagining what they would do to their father's company, if not his legacy. _It was perhaps better that Astor and Guggenheim died here, at any rate_, he thought impassively, knowing what a burden it was to have children—Charlotte notwithstanding, of course—since he despised his own.

Nevertheless, he attempted to gain their attention, a charming smile in place of his brooding ruminations. He stepped forward, all politeness and cordiality, his right hand at the ready to shake both men's hands. "Astor, Guggenheim, what a pleasure it is, to see you again," he said to both in greeting, his refined expression the epitome of all that was noble and represented their class. And yet, in spite of all mannerly affection he accorded them, his greeting went unheard, if not ignored, for neither John Jacob Astor nor Benjamin Guggenheim acknowledged him, as they continued on in their own conversation, their retreating figures leaving Cal as dumbfounded as he was confused.

His smile abruptly faded, a blackening scowl replacing it. He stared after them, in their fine black evening coats and perfectly knotted ties, in utter disbelief. How dare they ignore him; for a cut direct, even for one so subtly and inextricably done, was not to be borne. Cal fumed, silently, feeling slighted by the older men, albeit he now, ironically, matched them in age. He watched them disappear into the First Class dining room, where others, as far as Cal could tell, mingled. He shook his head, wholly in disgust. It was evident that, in spite of everything, _nothing_ had changed. Did anyone here even _realize_ that they were dead? Cal could not say for a certainty.

And yet, as another familiar face passed by—as such was none other than Trudy Bolt, Rose's maid, who had also been lost—he tried, yet again, to make contact, though received the same, cold, unpleasant non-greeting. He shot a glare at the woman's retreating back as she entered into the dining room. A round of laughter soon followed thereafter, as the tinkling of champagne glasses accompanied it. Cal muttered an ungentlemanly curse, and his expression darkened. Hellfire and damnation, but what was their reason for cutting him so forwardly, surely there was a reason for their brusque manner? Was it his appearance, his rough tumble in the streets, his lack of fine evening attire? Surely they still recognized him as one of their own. They could not be so ignorant or so blind as _not_ to know him…could they? Again, he failed to find an answer to the questions he had, his internal conflict compelling him to leave the foyer as the thought of seeing another again—faint and irrefutably impossible as it most assuredly was—flitted across his troubled mind.

Without so much as a backwards glance at his former dinner companions, he made his way up the stairs, as he took them, two at a time, in long deep strides. He ignored those who passed by him as they made their descent down into the dining foyer, no longer caring whether they spoke to him or not. He no longer cared for anything, really, except for the small shred of hope in seeing the one he had longed to set eyes on once again.

Rose.

_Surely_, he thought, as he bounded up the steps, surely she would be here, since it appeared that everyone else was. Rose had died in the sinking, and as such—_logically_, Cal thoughtfully noted—she would be here among those who also perished. It was a small hope, at any rate.

The possibility of seeing her again impelled his every step, just as he imagined her, dressed in her evening's finest, standing near the Grand Staircase's ornate clock, waiting. He envisioned her in the black dress with its pink undercoating—the dress she had worn, when accompanying Dawson—as it had been one, he recalled, that he had purchased for her in Paris. She had been lovely in the dressmaker's shop, but was a true vision to behold when she wore it for that first and, sadly, last time that night. It was undoubtedly destroyed by now, perhaps no longer in existence, given the circumstances. But, oh, this dream or reality—whatever this was—could change all of that, since Cal knew that he was among the ghosts of _Titanic_.

The thought struck him odd, that he found himself here, since he had not perished with them. It bore little reason, for he had not seen Colonel Gracie—also a survivor, who had died a scant eight months after the sinking—among those in the dining room. And yet, he did, however, notice, if only by a sideways glance, Thomas Andrews, with a ship's logbook in hand, and a disapproving look upon his otherwise amiable countenance. And just as strangely, Cal almost swore that the man was looking directly _at_ _him_, even though no other of his class had yet acknowledged him. He ignored Andrews, as he continued up the steps, the Grand Staircase in sight.

A multitude of bodies, all dressed in various garb, from the upper crust of society to the poorest and most shameful dregs of it, were among each other's company, as they congregated around the staircase and beyond it. Cal almost grimaced at the sight of the ignominious Third Class who, by all rights, should not be in that part of the ship. _Even if they are dead_, thought Cal, a little dryly. It almost shamed him to see his own class standing alongside of them, let alone speaking to them as if they were equals! But then, perhaps, the sinking had changed all of that, breaking through the class barriers, for were all not equal in death? Cal pondered the possibility for a moment longer, his searching gaze looking upon every head and face, trying to discern a shock of deep, vibrant red among the many dark, blonde, and grey heads.

He saw nothing.

Whatever shred of hope he had dissipated in the instant. Cal looked down, a sense of crushing disappointment overcoming the remainder of his composure. Rose was not here, waiting for him; he had been a fool to believe that she would be. _Goddamn it, Rose, where are you?_ he thought, wretchedly, his mind, as well as his hope, left in tatters. He barely noticed those standing around him, passing him by without so much as a word or look of concern, as only a slight tapping on his shoulder jolted him out of his reverie.

He looked up, his eyes still focused on the imaginary Rose in his mind, still imagining her exquisite beauty, and the fact that he would, probably, never see her again—not even in death. He could barely see past her blinding radiance, to the one before him until he abandoned all thoughts of her, his gaze finally drawing upon the one who acquired his attention. A look akin to disgust drew over his face like a dark storm cloud. For of all people, who could speak to him in this godforsaken nightmare, it had to be…

"Dawson," Cal greeted with a smile, though it was a cold smile, false in every way imaginable.

Jack frowned at the frosty greeting, though nodded his head in kind.

The faux smile vanished and Cal's eyes narrowed, his scrutiny of the man standing not three feet from him forcing him to comprehend just how long it had been since he had last seen the cause of his losing Rose. Little had changed in the artist's—if Cal could even bring himself to call the gutter rat such—appearance, if anything at all. He was still on the better side of twenty, youthful, clad in the same dark-plumb top and brown trousers in which Cal had first seen him, and had that same, sickeningly, endearing smile that had unfortunately drawn Rose to her death. Cal wanted nothing more than to slap that smile off of Dawson's face; or, better yet, kill him again. He honestly regretted not having his pistol with him, or even Lovejoy's—whom he had also failed to see in this luxurious version of Hell.

No matter. He would, even if he had to suffer Dawson's company, damn well, at least, have one question answered. Cal regarded his rival coldly, his forbidding expression frozen in a sheet of cold apathy. He briefly glanced at the crowd surrounding them, and was half-relieved that none paid any heed to him or Dawson. It would simply not do if his personal affairs were made known to the public—even if everyone around him was dead. He still had to uphold his reputation and the family name, after all.

Jack, however, looked at Cal, annoyance clearly written on his almost boyish features. Honestly, the man was unbelievable, if not completely deplorable in his regarding others at his own leisure. He cleared his throat, the ploy gaining a distracted Cal's attention.

"What is it, Dawson?" Cal asked, a little impatiently, those obsidian eyes returning their gaze to Jack.

Blue eyes countered his, a look of severity lingering in their kind depths. "I need to talk to you."

A dark eyebrow rose at his words. "And so you are," replied Cal, noncommittally. "You might as well say what you intend, and not waste my time any further."

The former artist began to make a retort, but apparently thought better of it, as he instead shook his head. "You don't understand," he began, attempting to find some mutual accord between Cal and himself. "The thing is—"

"Where is Rose?" Cal brusquely interjected; those dark eyes no longer on Jack, but on those surrounding them. "I want to know where she's hiding. I demand to see her, at once."

Jack frowned heavily. So, the bastard was still thinking of her, still obsessed, and, to Jack's dismay, still unable to let go of her. That possessive nature had not left Caledon Hockley—not even after seventeen years. Of course, it should not have been so surprising, given how far Cal had gone to keep Rose for himself; he had almost claimed her life with a bullet. Jack would never forget the chase into the flooded First Class dining room, nor its horrid aftermath.

As such, the reluctance in his task made it that much more difficult to face the man who had, ultimately, been far more deserving of death than he. The years had not been too kind to Rose's former fiancé, given the wear upon that still-handsome visage. The now, tattered clothing that Cal boasted was a shameful contrast to Jack's humble attire, the blood on his face and neck more alarming than it was pleasing to the eye. Did he even realize that it was there, or even the implications thereof? Jack highly doubted it. With only thoughts of Rose blinding him, Cal was oblivious to everything else. Even now, he was probably thinking of her, that almost intelligent mind running a one-track race, with no hope of achieving the prize he sought. It was almost tragic in a way.

With this in mind, Jack pressed forward. "I understand that I'm the last person you want to see," he said, purposely evading Cal's question. "But then, I'm probably the only one who'll actually speak to you, since I don't think your…ah…social companions have been as forthcoming, have they?"

Cal shot him a glare, but remained silent, since both men knew that he had been slighted by his own class. His pride had been dealt a terrible blow, though he would not acknowledge it—not verbally, anyway—and certainly not to anyone, least of all, to someone like Jack Dawson. It galled him to even acknowledge the young man who, apparently, took no precaution in staring at him as if he were some sort of freak show attraction. It was almost unbearable.

"Good God, Dawson! Are you going to say what you will, or are you simply going to keep gawping at me, as you did when Rose nearly fell overboard to look at those damned _propellers_?" he demanded crossly, unable to bear those piercing blue eyes—which seemed to widen, when he mentioned Rose's mishap—a moment longer.

And as if by some act of mercy, those blue eyes desisted, their intensity, thankfully, lessening. "Look, I don't wanna to argue with you, least of all about what I have to tell you," replied Jack evenly, and he proceeded to speak when he saw Cal nod for him to continue. He hesitated for a fraction of a second before he spoke. "I'm sure that you've already guessed _why_ you're here, but the truth is…you're not dead."

"Not dead?" Cal reiterated slowly, a snort of laughter following before he became serious once again. "That is funny, Dawson, unimaginably so. But then, you're a very good _liar_, as I seem to recall."

Refusing to be baited, Jack ignored the barb. "Almost as good as you, I'll bet," he said, as far as he would allow himself to retort. "But in this case, I'm not: you are not dead—not in the way that you believe, anyhow."

Again, that dark eyebrow rose, though this time in suspicion. "And what are you suggesting, Dawson?" demanded Cal rigidly, no longer in the mood to humor the bastard of an artist in front of him.

And Jack conceded. "Do you remember, before coming here, what it was that attacked you?"

A flicker of disbelief alighted in Cal's eye. "A whore, with very sharp teeth, apparently," he answered, laconically, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "What of it?"

Shoving his hands into his pockets, Jack nodded, half-shrugging in agreement. "That _whore_," he repeated the loathsome term, "was a Romanian _Strigoii_; or, is more widely known as a—"

"_A_ _what_?" Cal interrupted, already lost.

His unwanted companion made a face. God, but would the man ever _stop_ interrupting? Shaking his head, Jack instead answered Cal's question with one of his own. "Ever read a book called _Dracula_? You know, the book, written by this Stoker guy who—"

"I am aware of who the author is!" Cal spat out. "What does he have to do with me?"

"Everything," the former artist answered, his expression serious. "Or rather, the things _in_ his novel, that is."

Cal frowned, his solemn gaze half-drawn in doubt. Truly, he did not enjoy the cryptic nature of the subject that the gutter rat chose, but he would, for once, play along. "I am assuming that what it is that you are suggesting is that my blood is tainted by a bloodsucking succubus. How novel," he chuckled. "Even in death, you must make the most surprising of remarks. I suppose that I should—what was it? Oh, yes—make that count, too?"

Jack made a face. "It's a little more than that, I'm afraid," he contested, somewhat grimly.

Cal's frown deepened. "What the hell are you talking about, Dawson, that I've some damned venereal disease, in which I'm prone to hallucinations?" he muttered in a low, condescending voice, abstaining from making a comment on Dawson's ability to comprehend the work of an acclaimed author, let alone read.

Unimpressed by the sordid retort, Jack cast him a withering look. "What I'm talking is something that a sensible guy like _you_ wouldn't believe in. To put it bluntly, you're not dead, Cal, but _undead_." He almost smiled when he saw a semblance of recognition dawn on Cal's features. "Glad you're finally catching on, since you've been infected and all. I wasn't sure if you would—given, how you are…skeptical of everything else."

He received a stern look of disapproval. "Don't insult my intelligence, Dawson," Cal bit out, through clenched teeth. "I'm in no mood to indulge myself in your stupidity. I understand what it is that you're insinuating, and I don't believe a word of it. Not a single, goddamn word, do you understand? And don't mistake me for a fool, either, since I damn well know what it is that you suggest, just as I am sure that this, including you, is all but a dream. Indeed, I shall wake up in my bed and laugh, knowing that you're just a figment of my imagination and nothing more."

Jack looked at him, nonplussed. "Dream or not, though, this _is_ real, just as you'll soon come to realize—once you get your head out of your ass, that is." He suppressed a grin, knowing that he now had Cal's full attention. He ignored the stormy glare the man directed him, his lackadaisical smile concealing a more sinister truth, for Jack knew many things that Cal did not. And as such, he was only half-willing to disclose some of that aforementioned truth.

As it was a certainty, to Jack, at least, that it would have, perhaps, been better if Cal had died, than having to face a glaring new world when he awakened. Indeed, it was almost a pity that the poor bastard had survived. And he confessed as much, when he finally disclosed the truth of the _Strigoii's_ nature. "They are obsessed as hell over things," he furthered, knowing well how Cal had obsessed over Rose, even before the sinking—afterward…was even worse. He dared not consider how enhanced that obsession would be, once Cal came to himself. "And what's more, they're some of the most heartless bastards that you'll ever come across."

Cal afforded him a droll smile. "I believe that I have already come to that conclusion, Dawson," he returned, almost amused. "I daresay I shall know better, next time."

Jack shook his head, as if astonished by how undeniably _charming_ Cal could be—if he wished to be, that was. He almost believed that the man could, if he dared, outlast his curse, for Jack knew, if only vaguely, of that steel resolve in Cal's need to control himself. The man suppressed almost every human emotion imaginable; however, when he lost sense of that precious control, it was explosive, the consequences almost deadly. And yet, there was a still a fragment of humanity—that same human fragment deemed _love_ that he had for Rose—in him, which had prevented anything further. _And perhaps that_, Jack reasoned, _will_ _be_ _enough_. It would have to be; there was nothing else that could save Cal, as well as others, from himself.

"You'll have to be careful, when you're around people," he said. "You'll also have to keep yourself from giving into certain temptations, if you will. The woman who bit you, along with her kind, are known to kill, if not merely for pleasure. You'll have to refrain from it."

Squaring his jaw, Cal gave him a disbelieving look. "This is ridiculous."

Undaunted, Jack met his gaze. "Look, ridiculous or not, it's true; and, given you're past, it will cause you to be just as evil and cruel. You'll have to suppress it, to fight against it," he warned him. "Your family and those around you won't survive if you don't, somehow, learn to control yourself."

Cal glowered at him. "Don't think yourself above your station, to give yourself leave to preach to me, Dawson," he growled. "I know how you well enjoy this, just as I am sure that my predicament amuses you."

His companion, however, only shook his head. "I don't take any pleasure in your pain; honestly, I don't, since you'll have to live with it for the rest of eternity. There is no cure for your condition, I'm sorry to say."

"What do you mean?" Cal asked, his dark eyes narrowing in suspicion.

Jack pulled his hands out of his pockets, and raised them, if only to placate the brooding man in front of him. "You're not the same as you were; you won't be able to pass on like those around you. You will be forced to watch those closest to you age and die, whilst you, shall be as you currently are. You'll never age, never die," he said, those blue eyes looking beyond the darkness that obscured the imprisoned soul in Cal's eyes. "There is no Heaven, no Hell for you, and certainly no release from what you'll forever crave. You are trapped, in every imaginable."

A touch of anger overshadowed Cal's eyes, those already, natural brown irises infused with something darker, something more malevolent and deadly than what he assuredly felt when he saw Rose jump from the lifeboat and return to Dawson's ill-fated side. It would have surely given half of Philadelphia Society a start, and would have caused three quarters of the dowager mothers to succumb to the vapors. But then, Cal could have cared less, since confronting Dawson, was all that mattered to him at that moment.

"You're lying," he muttered, a bitter, if not succinct statement, as he regarded Dawson coldly, his stony expression bordering on rage. He disregarded those surrounding him, their watchful stares no longer important, just as they were no longer welcome among his company. _They can rot in Hell, for all the good their finery and good graces does them_, he thought mordantly, his eyes refusing to divert from the pitiful form of existence before him. His expression darkened. God, how he hated the likes of which were Jack Dawson! Why Rose had chosen a gutter rat over him was beyond his understanding. But she had, and the truth of it did nothing to quell the anger building up inside of him. Truly, he wanted nothing more than to take his fist to that perfectly plebian face and smash it beyond all recognition. Perhaps he would knock a few teeth out along the way—teeth, which had, assuredly, nipped at those rose-red lips that he, himself, had once claimed as his own.

He closed his eyes; the thought of Rose kissing anyone else was infinitely worse than the pain he had felt from the gaping wound at his throat. He could not bear consider the possibility, and he certainly, as hell, could not bear the evidence of such when it stood before him. His eyes opened, a shattering resolve overwhelming him; where, before he could question his actions, he reached for Dawson, his hands grasping the young man's throat. Or, rather, what would have been his throat, since Cal only grasped the tangible nothingness where Dawson stood. He muttered a curse, his eyes widening in bewilderment.

Jack only smiled. "You can't kill someone who's already dead," he said, as if correcting an ignorant child. "And besides, it seems that your time here is up. You can't stay here forever, you know." He gave the man a pointed look. "Morning will come for you, Cal. I just hope you're prepared for it."

Cal snorted in contempt. "Go to hell, Dawson," he muttered in return, although he knew _that_ could never be—unless _Titanic_ was a most luxurious version of Hell. But then, he knew that such was not the case, not for Dawson—the very pillar of morality—whom Rose would surely deem as nothing less than her own, personal patron saint of _fine_ _art_. Cal bristled at the connection, as a flicker of a thought came to mind. The fool had not answered his question! _Probably on purpose_, he groused silently to himself, his mouth opening to say as much.

Though before he could utter a single word, the sensation of falling forward struck him like a stray thunderbolt—a most shocking reality, wholly without origin—that almost rendered him senseless. His hands blindly clenched at his stomach, a thousand terrible sensations of pain exposing every cell and fiber of his body to the agony that he now, assuredly, felt. Dear God, what was happening to him? This new onslaught of pain was far worse than when he had been bitten by that whore, much worse. He looked up at Dawson, and caught a hint of sympathy in the artist's eyes. He almost snapped. How _dare_ the gutter rat pity him! It was not to be borne.

Reaching once again toward Dawson, Cal made a final attempt to make contact with that Erosian face. He fought against the pain, forcing down a scream, which lay within his throat, his hands falling through the visible nothingness that was Jack Dawson once again. He looked down at the cold marble floor, the futility in his actions compelling him to give in and admit defeat. _But not yet_, he vowed, looking once again to Dawson.

Casting him another glare, Cal straightened himself. "What is the meaning of this?" he seethed, demanding to be answered, in spite of the pain it caused him to speak. His right hand clutched at his temple, the proverbial, dream world around him spinning off of its metaphorical axis. He snorted, finding a slight sense of pleasure in his waxing poetic on his condition; but it could not be helped, as he considered the man who was surely enjoying his pain. "This is not natural," he rasped, his mouth—or, more aptly, his teeth—hurting beyond all recall. "Why do I feel so wretched? Answer me, Dawson!"

The former artist gave him a rueful smile. "Because you're waking up," he answered simply, the ornate wooden clock behind him—which was also fading—striking the hour of six. Cal looked at it, as though in disbelief. Funny. He could not recall ever having heard it chime before. Perhaps he had somehow forgotten that it had. He had forgotten so much since he had last set eyes on it—or rather, tried to forget—that he could have forgotten something so small and trivial as its sweet chiming, as well. It was of little consequence, however, since the only thing that mattered to him was that Dawson answer his question. He would not leave until the fool told him the truth.

As such, Cal gave Dawson a slight nod of acceptance, though it pained his pride. "I'll go," he muttered stiffly. "But first, I want to know one thing before I do: where the hell is Rose? Where are you hiding her, Dawson?" He took a single step forward, his body writhing in agony, as there he stood, face-to-face with the one who could _finally_ answer that which he had longed to know.

But fate, it seemed, prevented him from gaining the answer he sought; for, as he demanded that Dawson tell him, everything, as before, went black, the answer—if there was one—lost with it.

"No! No! Not yet. I'm not ready to go, damn it!" Cal cried out, as he began to fade away from the magnificent structure that, like he, would never again see the light of day. For the last thing that he saw was the face of Jack Dawson, that most, ordinarily handsome countenance bearing an almost palpable sadness that he had never before seen—least of all, on Rose's lover—expressed by another human being. He frowned at the sight. Why was Dawson so damned…distraught?

His question, however, went unanswered, eluding him completely, as all thought, all sense of rationality, faded into the same nothingness that composed all dreams and desires. For if such a dream was a thing of reality…then perhaps all of it had been real. And if so, then Cal, unfortunately, failed to know a single truth as he faded out of this temporal existence.

Jack glanced at the spot where Cal once stood before disappearing completely, and leaving only a single memory of his being there. The former artist pursed his lips together, his brow furrowing in thought. Conflict was sketched upon his disheveled features, a hint of worry in his eye. He felt a hand fall upon his shoulder, giving comfort where he, himself, could evoke none. He turned to acknowledge his friend, Fabrizio's knowing gaze issuing a silent understanding. Jack frowned, dismayed.

"He's going to find her."

It was all he said, the sadness in his voice, filled with undeniable dread, bespoke of some dark and terrible thing which he feared would eventually happen. For obsession, he knew, was the most dangerous thing of all, a thing that breathed life into a man like Caledon Hockley—a man who could _and_ would find what had long eluded him. It was only a matter of time before he accomplished such an end. Rose would not stand a chance—not against the _thing_ that Cal now was. And Jack, who had, he believed, loved her more than any other, could only watch the scene unfold like some Shakespearean tragedy. He would watch Cal tear her apart—that life and fire that he had, at one time, loved, and still loved about her, flickering amidst his worst fears—as a nightmare from Rose's past revisited her. He would watch it all, and he, powerless to stop it, could only imagine, if vaguely, Rose's brilliant fire go out—under that damned, suffocating possession of one Caledon Hockley.

For after all, it _was_, only a matter of time until she was found—time, in which Jack no longer had, and time, in which Cal, who had plenty of…

…

Waking up to the glorious morning sunlight was, in all assurances of the word, absolute hell, albeit the curtains—which had, time and again, done an adequate job in shielding him from the sun in the past—blocked out the majority of it. Only a thin stream managed to penetrate their thick dark layers, that one band of golden sunshine the only indication that morning had indeed come, as it was such that Cal, who still lingered on the edge of consciousness, had no wish to acknowledge.

A single groan was heard amidst the silence, the rumbling of sheets accompanying it. What time was it? he wondered, idly. It was surely, to God, no more than seven, given the fact that Mrs. Bridgeton had not set another one of her loathsome, early-morning _cures_ next to his bedside, since a glass of water stood in its place. Wait. Water? Why the hell would she leave a glass of water at his beside? She'd never done so before. Surely the woman was losing touch with reality. But then…given his coherency, he had no need for her _cure_—not today, anyhow—since he was, for once, perfectly, unbelievably, if not irrevocably sober.

Cal then looked about himself grimly. He was no less the worse for wear. His neck ached like the devil, but there nothing there, save for a dull, throbbing pain. There was no cut, no blood, only a little bruising. The area, however, felt a little tender nonetheless.

A smile came to his shadowed face, laughter escaping him. _Wasn't it as I told you? Did you think yourself right, Dawson, about my predisposition in being inherently wicked_? he mused, as if in triumph. "What a fool," he muttered aloud, before sitting up in his bed.

It was just as what he'd told Dawson: for there he was, in his bed, very much alive, and the events of the previous night…all but a terrible, if not strange, dream. He shook his head, half in disenchantment. It had all been a dream—a relief, surely—but then, he had not seen Rose, either. Dawson had failed to tell him of her whereabouts. _Still being that pathetic white knight, saving her from the terrible, selfish bastard who was to be her husband_, he thought, his eyes darkening at the memory of the dead artist. He glared at the glass of water sitting next to him, thinking, remembering that night, and how cold that dark ocean had been. _I hope that you held her in your arms, when you both froze to death. I hope that your skin turned blue and your eyes closed forever. I hope that she watched you die, struggling for your last breath as you tried to say her name but failed. I hope that you died, right before she kissed you. I hope that she didn't kiss you at all, you son of a bitch_.

He scowled at the image of them his mind conjured. Thoughts of Rose choosing that undeserving bastard always threw him into a rage. There were even days, when working at the mill, that the _ghost_ of Rose would appear, haunting him, tormenting him with those final days that they had shared.

Shared.

What an idea! They hadn't shared a thing, save for her spite of him. Oh, and lest he forget, her admission: that she'd rather be Dawson's whore than his wife, the thick glob of spit on his face—a final _gift_ from his _precious_ Rose—cooling against the cold night air. He had never forgotten what he had seen in her eyes that night, that look of pure, unadulterated hatred, reserved only for him. She had called him an unimaginable bastard. He'd never forgotten _that_, either, just as there were moments, when he could still see, in his mind's eye, her shock and disgust at what he had done, could still hear the surprise and anger her voice, could still feel her spit upon his face…

_I should never have booked passage on that goddamn ship_. _But there is nothing for it now, is there_? he vaguely reproached himself. He had been so stupid, so foolish, as to take Rose home on that ship. But then, how could he have known what would inevitably happen? It wasn't like he'd wanted Dawson there, saving her, or being there at dinner, either. Nor had he wanted that gutter rat luring her out of the dining room, exposing her to the common, lowlife dregs that frequented brothels and pubs—not a suitable place for one of Rose's class, certainly—even though, he, himself, had, in his time, dared venture into such places of vice and sin. Rose had been unaware of it, to be sure, but, nevertheless, he _knew_ of the goings-on among Steerage. _Even if she was merely _dancing. He almost scoffed at the reason for her going with Dawson, for why couldn't _he_ have been enough for her? Had his presence been that abhorrent to her? Of course it had been, since he was certainly, as hell, no Jack Dawson. _I hope I'm making each day count now, Dawson_, he sneered, and then turned his gaze to the curtained windows.

He rolled his eyes. What a mercy that _someone_ had the good sense to close them, even though he was not suffering from a hangover. He could only assume that Mrs. Bridgeton had closed them, as she always did, before he awakened. _Smart woman_, he silently, if not offhand, commended of her. Not that he would thank her, of course. He never thanked anyone unless it was expected or benefited him in some way, as he only had to thank…

_Damn_ _it_.

He'd forgotten about Charlotte. It was of little consequence, however; he'd make his absence last night up to her soon enough. Right now, he had to gather the will to _actually_ get out of bed and ready himself for the day.

He almost smiled, as the old adage of there being no rest for the wicked came to mind; for there was surely those, far wickeder than he. _Father certainly fit into that category, just as he has his own domain in Hell_, he reminded himself, before considering his own, hypothetical place there. Would any of his former employees, who died in service to the mill, come to haunt or torment him? Surely they wouldn't—not as Rose and Dawson had. He idly wondered if he would be cast into the proverbial Lake of Fire before scoffing at the idea. The gnashing of flesh had been bad enough to consider, but a Lake of Fire, bathed in absolute darkness? The absurdity in such a notion was almost too laughable, too ridiculous to even consider. He failed to understand how his mother ever believed in such idiocy.

He nearly laughed, noticing a strand of sunlight on the sheets. He languidly traced the edge of it, his long fingers remaining in the shadows before falling over the thin sliver of light. _Lake of Fire indeed_. He snorted at the comparison before suddenly crying out, his hand withdrawing from the small band of harmless sunlight.

Spitting out a strangled oath, he cradled his hand close to his chest. He flinched when he moved it. Dear God, it burned as if it were on fire. And perhaps it had been, since Cal could smell a faint trace of smoke, his hand, even in darkness, showing signs of sunburn. Damn it all! He glowered at the burn, his eyes noting _every_ detail, _every_ flaw his hand harbored…as well as how long his fingernails had grown. Like sharp points, the tips of his fingers were overshadowed by the new, almost claw-like fixtures; hard, unyielding, and sharp to the touch. Impossible.

Forgetting the pain, he allowed his injured hand to fall to his side as he looked about the room; where, strangely enough, he could see _everything,_ as if a light were on. Those dark eyes widened in disbelief. _What the hell_? Shaking his head, he glanced at the fireplace and the painting, and the lady it harbored, mounted above it. He blinked at it in bewilderment as he considered her face, her eyes, and lips. Every detail appeared more vibrant, almost lifelike. _Almost like_…But he could not bring himself to compare the painting's beauty to another's. Instead, he compelled himself to remember the painting itself.

He'd had the Rossetti moved only the week before, finding that he preferred to see it in his room than in the study, where it had hung since after the sinking. He could still remember purchasing it through a private collector for a very reasonable sum, as it had, most assuredly, not cost him as much as the Heart of the Ocean. _But then_, Cal reasoned quietly, his eyes transfixed by the painting, _it had not been a cheap purchase, either_.

Nevertheless, he'd never regretted claiming the lady in the painting for his own. With her red hair, green dress, and sedate expression, as those delicate, pale fingers forever plucked away at the strings of a violin—so much like another woman he knew—had urged him to have her at any cost. Felicia hated it, certainly, for she'd also known the reason for Cal's having it. He never claimed it as a wedding gift, albeit he had gotten it the _day_ _before_ they married, and had it mounted in the study the _day after_.

And he'd admired it, greatly; though, unlike Cal, his bride had been the first to notice the significance of it, as she had complained of it, time and again, during their short-lived marriage.

Cal ignored most of his former wife's complaints; he never struck her insolent face, though he had, on occasion, been greatly tempted to obliterate that seemingly, perpetual sneer of hers—God, how he hated it, hated her!—but always refrained; she had never been worth the effort, anyhow. Instead, he had fresh red roses placed below the painting, on the mantelpiece—a most elegant shrine, for any lost love—as it was a tender, if not strange, gesture, just as their meaning had not been lost on his discontented bride, since Cal, never once, gifted her with flowers after their marriage. The roses were the painting's alone—or rather, for the woman it framed, with her beautiful, indifferent, cold expression—as the tradition of his gift endured, even after his divorce.

For indeed, the roses were a sight to behold, even when they were bathed in darkness. He could smell their sweet scent from across the room, their subtle perfume, though still alluring to his senses, was tinged, however, with a hint of decay. They would have to soon be exchanged for a fresher replacement. He nearly groaned at the prospect. First his eyes, and now his sense of smell…Could this waking nightmare become any worse than it already had?

Groaning, he cradled his face in his hands, the burn, strangely, lessening in its abrasive sting. Perhaps Dawson had been right, after all, even though it galled him to admit it. He preferred everything of the previous night to be nothing but a terrible nightmare; but, when he finally forced himself to leave the bed—carefully minding the small slant of sunlight—he entered the bathroom and realized the truth. For when he washed his face, he noticed that the burn, which had been naught but agony only moments before, was, almost, completely healed. He frowned at the sight of it before turning his face to the mirror—or rather, where his face _should have_ _been_—and finding only the door and wall reflected from behind.

"Is this some kind of terrible, sick, fucking joke?" he muttered to himself, his hand, with its long fingernails, gingerly touching the mirror, his fingers meeting only glass and a reflection of all which it reflected—except he. He scowled at the mirror, before taking a toothbrush and waving it in front of its cold glass surface. The toothbrush moved, almost frenetically, although nothing which held it was seen. "Damn it!" he cursed aloud, the toothbrush falling to the floor.

It clattered against the cold, white, Italian marble tiles, but Cal disregarded it, his eyes remaining on the mirror, that graying dark head falling forward in despair. Oh, dear God, what had that whore done to him? And even more, how could he have been so foolish, so _stupid_, as to believe that wretched woman had been his Rose, returned to him from beyond his shattered hopes?

And then he remembered Dawson's words. He scoffed at the thought of them. Surely, he was becoming a bit touched in his age, to allow himself to believe in such nonsense, although everything, at present, proved the contrary. _Nathan would have a field day with this dilemma of mine_, he mused, dryly, since the subject of his father—or, rather, his father's disapproval of him—was something he always forced in the back of his mind, just as he did when the man demonstrated his way in correcting his son's many failures.

Nathan Hockley left no scars—none that would be seen outside of the bedchamber, at any rate—although the memory of his discipline remained as fresh and as degrading as when it had first been inducted. Cal never forgot the long hours spent in the darkness of his bedroom, the door locked, dinner refused—yet again; and, being an only child, had none of the fraternal comforts allotted to those more fortunate than he. For there he would lay, on his bed, outside of the sheets, the shadows in his room his only companions, since his father had denied him the company of even a servant. 'An education in being self-sufficient' the bastard had deemed it, although, in reality, it was his way in punishing his son for a failure, in meeting the standards of their society.

It was what was expected of a prominent, if not well-respected businessman's son, after all.

_Expected_.

Cal almost snorted at the word. He looked at the mirror for another moment, before turning away from it completely. There was nothing for it now, anyhow. He even doubted that it would reflect his retreating figure, as he made his way to his wardrobe. In truth, he no longer cared, since he never put much stock into courting a looking glass after accepting a leg shackle and binding himself to that whore of a wife. What would it matter if he were never to see his reflection again? he wondered, half-intrigued by the prospect. For truly, what _would_ it mean if he cast no reflection for the rest of his life—or, unlife, if Dawson were to be believed? Probably not a damn thing, although it would surely give his poor valet a start.

His valet.

_Shit_.

He'd forgotten about the man entirely. It was of little importance, though, since the idiot would not come unless Cal called for him. Years of regarding his sudden shifts in temper had surely taught the man to remain at a close distance until his services were needed. They would not be needed today, however, since Cal took it upon himself to do a servant's work. He was in no mood for company—least of all that of his valet's—as he could barely summon forth the desire to actually _dress_ himself as he considered the massive girth of his wardrobe.

He looked at the various garbs, a sharp, discerning eye regarding each, before deciding against them. Evening attire aligned one wall, whilst the other was stocked with that which he wore at the mill. They were in all manner of the word of casual—far from what his father would have worn, certainly—as he chose to wear them at the mill mainly for that fact alone. He was no longer the fashion Clydesdale he'd once been, having given up formal shirts—ridiculous things, which buttoned up in the back—and wearing layer upon layer of heavy clothing. And for what, to simply stand out and be admired by a throng of adoring peers? He'd long gone without a compliment from some mindless fool concerning his person—unless he counted that bloodsucking slut—and doubted he would receive one now. Those days of indulging himself in high fashion were, sadly and irrevocably, over.

Casting the thought aside, he looked about his wardrobe a final time before deciding on a simple pair of khaki pants and a pinstriped button-up shirt. He would need no aid in dressing himself; he needed nothing, save for the quiet solitude found in his mind's incoherent ramblings. He would not be able to go to the mill today. If anything, he would have to wait until nightfall, and then conduct his business, as it now appeared that he would have to so from now on; he refused to burn himself again, even if, upon present inspection, his arm was completely healed. He would never survive if he came under the sun's wrath without anything to shield him from its now deadly rays.

He cursed his misfortune, and doubly cursed the woman who had brought such upon him. He then realized that he never caught her name, though he doubted it mattered now, since she was, he assumed, no longer stalking the streets of Pittsburgh. It was a most strange sensation—one in which he did not understand—but he _felt_ that she, whoever _she_ had been, was no longer in the city. _Moved on to another unsuspecting fool, like the leeching whore she is_, he thought, before buttoning his sleeve's right cuff.

Dressing himself was usually a tedious affair, which was why he left the task in the hands of his valet, even though he never always needed the man's assistance. In some cases, however, when he had at least three layers to put on, or had to wear various stiff neck collars—all of which specified a different occasion—that required the hands of another; and, lest Cal forgot, all of the ties he had to wear. He failed to understand why women—albeit in the private confidence of one another—always complained in wearing a corset. Felicia had also done so, harping over how difficult it was to breathe, and how it shaped her ribs into some kind of grotesque deformity. Even Rose had complained of it, making it no secret to him that she detested wearing them. In turn, he had told her to shut her mouth and bear it, since a corset could not have been as restricting as the many, confining layers of clothing he was compelled to wear. _But then, I have seen the ugliness that one of those damned things leaves behind on a woman_. It was a small admission on his part, but an admission nonetheless.

Perhaps it was one consolation that Rose—even though he had never seen her so underdressed—had not suffered the same fate as those who had lived on. Her death had at least spared her that much. He grimaced at the irony of her death, since corsets were entirely out of fashion, anyway—had been for at least a decade. He then imagined what she would look like if she had survived, if she had returned to him, having forgotten Dawson as she took _his_ hand instead, just as it was supposed to be. He considered the thought of her, the image of Rose brimming, once again, in his mind.

Would she wear her hair up, or down? Would it still be its long, vibrant length, or cut short as the current fashion dictated? He was loath to imagine it, could scarcely consider the thought of Rose being so drastic, but then was unable to put it past her. She would probably do so, if only in defiance of him if they had indeed married. She probably would have done it herself, too, since it would enrage him even more, knowing how he treasured running his fingers through that brilliant hair.

_Damn you, Rose_, he thought, but could not bring himself to utter it. Instead, he returned to his bedside, his hands automatically reaching for the pinky ring he knew would be there. He then noticed the cufflinks—that Charlotte had given him only the morning before—were next to his wallet, pocket watch, and Rose's engagement ring. Mrs. Bridgeton had surely laid them out for him, just as she always did. He mechanically placed his wallet and pocket watch in their rightful places—the engagement ring reverently placed in his pants pocket—before taking up the cufflinks. Again, he considered them, where he again found nothing special about them. They were of little value, unordinarily common, but they had been a gift—a gift from the one living person who really gave a damn about him—and as such meant _something_ to him.

He then glanced at the back of one, noticing the little engraved sun at the bottom. He almost snorted; it would surely be the only sun he would see—let alone touch—ever again. He clipped them onto his shirt cuffs without a second thought, caring not if he had worn them only the day before; Nathan Hockley would have been affronted, surely, but Cal no longer cared for his progenitor's opinion. In fact, he no longer cared about anything, really. This was for Charlotte, and if this was his only way to make up for hurting her, then, by God, he would wear them.

He could not confess that he actually loved his adopted daughter, but he did take an interest in her; and if seeing her happy was the thing that he had to do, then he would. There was no question that he found himself actually caring for the flea-bitten child he'd once found so repulsive and yet had been the only means to save him from certain death. Charlotte was so much more than that, though, as he had, surprisingly, come to discover. He almost hated the idea of her marrying and leaving the estate—leaving him. He admitted that he did not see anything in her romantically, but she was his, just as his other children belonged to him, and he would not give any of them up until he was willing to part with them—in exchange for something better, surely. The marrying off of one's family was just as a lucrative business as overseeing a successful steel mill. There was always something to gain, always something that would profit him and the family name.

There was always _something_.

He considered such for another moment, his hand methodically putting the last touches to his daily attire before, as if out of nowhere, something struck the pit of his stomach. He bowled over at the shock of it, a pain like no other consuming him, tearing at the remaining fragments of his sanity. He cried out, trying to suppress the bulk of his agony, as something, deep within, gnawed at the very cortex of his being.

The feeling—which had surely lain dormant in him until now—deprived him, far more than his languid bouts in forgoing food entirely. It was even worse than refraining completely from drink, the pain beyond anything he'd ever known. He felt both conscious and not at the same time, an undeniable, if not indefinable thirst taking hold of him. Dear God, what was happening to him _now_? he wondered, furiously, the world around him spinning. The feeling was worse than any time he could recall being drunk, and was almost as bad as seeing Dawson again. Goddamn it, it was even worse than dying the night before!

He fell to his knees, desperately trying to regain control of himself. What had he done to deserve this torture? Was he being punished for a long list of sins that he'd long ignored as his? Perhaps he was suffering from his father's, as well, given how the bastard had died so peacefully in his sleep. Cal had little doubt that a man like Nathan Hockley regretted to see his life come to an end. _He certainly begrudged _me_ for outliving _him_, even when he knew that such would happen_, he mused, a single coherent thought breaking through his shattered mind.

Another groan escaped him, his eyes closing against the pain, the emptiness within growing inside of him. He felt it tugging at him, gnawing at his gut. The brief thought of curing it with alcohol crossed his mind, but immediately made him ill. Alcohol had always been the remedy before, though the thought of it now tormented him beyond the agony he presently felt. Drowning himself in drink would do nothing for him—_could do nothing_—as he felt that it never would again. He had to substitute it with something else, a _something_ that he dreaded, if Dawson were to be believed.

He lay there for the better part of an hour, ignoring the soft knocking his valet and Mrs. Bridgeton with which had continuously barraged his door. He glowered at their unseen figures and their incessant persistence in _looking after him_, as he wholeheartedly refused to acknowledge either of them, just as he could scarcely accept what had become of him. It had only been when he could no longer take the long hours of his self-imposed solitude that he dared venture out of his sanctuary, the halls already bathed in the darkness of the night.

Everything was bathed in shadows, and yet he could see everything quite clearly. It somewhat dismayed him, even though such an ability was more of a blessing than a curse—a tradeoff, if he were to really consider it; and he had, if only slightly—since he doubted that any of his other acquaintances shared this new acquisition. For that was what it ultimately was, since he could no longer venture out into the light of day. He would have to make new accommodations for his business hours, adapt as he usually did when an obstacle presented itself to him—by standing in the way of something he wanted. He would overcome this impediment as he would anything else, since he would not succumb to it. He could not; the entire Hockley estate—business and everything—would be at stake. There was no room for failure, since Caledon Hockley was not a man to _fail_.

His thoughts remained with him when he entered his study and sat at his desk.

…

It was well into the night before Cal heard the soft stirrings of another person, the gentle footfalls at the other end of the mansion alerting him in advance that he would soon be joined by the company of another, as that other person was none other than Charlotte. He almost dreaded seeing her, had practically avoided her all day. It was not as if he was ashamed for her to see him in his present state, but he could not bear the concern that he knew would rest in those tender blue eyes. She had seen him drunk before, but she had never seen him as the pathetic creature he now was. He doubted he could endure the horror in her eyes when she realized just what her dear, sweet 'Daddy' had become. It was almost enough to make him bolt from the room, though all too late, as a soft knocking—_her_ _knocking_—fell upon the study's door.

"Come in, Charlotte," Cal found himself say, drawing his slouched figure upright, his face obscured by the shadows.

The knocking ceased and the door opened, revealing a very surprised Charlotte, with a coffee cup in hand. She cast an uncertain glance about the study before closing the door behind her. She failed to notice the brief hint of amusement that lingered near her father's mouth, her eyes heavily drawn to something interesting on the floor instead. "I brought this for you, since the others are asleep," she said by way of explanation when she set the coffee cup down in front of him. She hesitated a moment before finally finding it within herself to speak to the man whose imposing presence indulged her silence.

"Daddy," she whispered, those soft blue eyes finally meeting his—or rather, where his would have been, since she could barely see his face, let alone his eyes—in an expression of complete uncertainty. "How are you?" she ventured, bravely, before taking a step toward the desk that separated them.

Cal gestured for her to sit down, which she did, however reluctantly. He almost laughed. The poor thing looked as pale as a sheet, her long, golden hair done up in hair rollers, her slender figure covered in a modest robe of pink satin. She looked almost _too_ innocent, vulnerable in a way that Rose had once been, although Rose lacked any of the ingrained, ladylike qualities that had been purposefully instilled in Charlotte. Indeed, if Cal were to be perfectly honest with himself, Rose could never have been as _sweet_, just as the blood—the blood which coursed through his daughter's veins—failed to tempt him as Rose's surely would have done. Charlotte's blood—the very scent of it—enthralled his senses, certainly, but he was not compelled to collect it from its source. He felt no urge in drinking Charlotte's blood, although he craved its dead equivalent.

The realization of not wanting her blood both surprised and appalled him, although he still refused to show his face to her as he looked at his untouched coffee instead. He was almost afraid of what she would find if she did—see him, that was—since he knew that he would be unable to look her in the eye ever again. He therefore remained in the safe, confining shadows which surrounded the desk lamp as he found himself answering her question—anything to banish that concern in her eyes. "I'm all right," he assured her, quietly, before taking the cup of coffee in his hands, his fingernails reduced once again to their normal size, since he'd cut their appalling length in the hours, long before sunset. "Truly, my dear," he said, half-examining them, "I've never felt better."

He caught a flash of a smile, those blue eyes brightening in what he suspected was relief. He was not prepared for her sudden need to express just how relieved she was, however, as, within the next moment, he was thoroughly embraced by the young woman he had watched grow into the inspiring lady that she so inherently was.

"Oh, Daddy!" he heard her exclaim in a muffled breath, the warmth of fresh tears penetrating his shirt. "I am so glad that you're really all right. After hearing what Collins said about you, when he found that you'd been attacked, and when you refused to see anyone…I was so worried—everyone was worried about you! Marcus and Alexander have even threatened to open an investigation."

Cal almost snorted at the likelihood of the latter possibility, knowing well enough what his servants and children believed—he'd heard them well enough, through the walls and corridors all day—when his driver explained how he had come upon him, face bloodied and clothing torn. The poor fool had suspected that he'd been mugged, and had opted to take him to call for a doctor—or, more embarrassingly, to go to the hospital—but, upon seeing movement from Cal, had decided to take him home instead. And Cal was almost grateful for the man's albeit skewed tact, since he doubted that he would have fared well if a doctor had failed to find a pulse, let alone find him burning if sunlight were to enter his hospital room.

Shaking his head at the thought, he reluctantly placed a comforting hand on Charlotte's back as he sensed her blood—her very essence—flowing radiantly in those silent, obscured veins. She was so full of life, so full of innocence, of an unspoken passion. It almost shocked him to realize just how grown up his little Charlotte truly was…and just how soon he would lose her to another.

The thought disturbed him more than he'd like to admit as he felt those warm, loving arms pull away from him. He looked at Charlotte's retreating figure, almost disbelievingly, feeling the coldness those arms left behind in their absence. For even without a heartbeat, he still felt the pleasant sensation that another's presence brought. _Although Charlotte's is not as profound as what Rose's had been_, he realized belatedly, as he again reminded himself of _that_ _last_ _embrace_ that he and Rose had shared. He'd honestly felt colder then, on the deck of that thrice-damned ship, than what Charlotte's sweet abandonment had left him with now.

It was almost enough for him to take out the engagement ring and throw it across, to the other side of the room. It was a temptation that he nearly gave into often, and sometimes did. But Rose's engagement ring, on this occasion, remained in the safe, confining linings of his pants pocket, the rage he felt burning inside of him slowly ebbing away to the nothingness he always felt afterward. Rose had always left him with a weakened sense of assurance, even throughout the course of their courtship and later engagement. From beyond the grave, however, that feeling had intensified until, at times, he could no longer bear the thought of her. And now…was no exception.

And so, with little else to distract him, Cal turned his attention once again to Charlotte, who seemed to be lost in an ocean of thoughts all her own. "Charlotte," he uttered her namesake, the gentle whisper of it rolling off his tongue like a string of poetry.

Charlotte's head darted upward. "Yes, Daddy?" she returned softly, the response carrying a hint of shame in her being caught drifting.

Cal almost sighed, knowing well enough what was on her mind; the unspoken subject of his disappointing her had been on his, as well. He allowed a moment to fall between them before speaking. "I understand that I should have been here last night, since I'd promised you," he broached, an apology not fully admitted, but one all the same. "As such, in light of last night's circumstances, I thought that you and I could…celebrate a certain occasion all on our own." His fingers rested collectively over the cup of coffee, his composure all business, and yet accommodating at the same time. He saw a hidden smile rest at the corner of his daughter's mouth, saw the light in her eyes dance, before he saw a vigorous nod of that golden head.

"Of course, Daddy: we shall do that," Charlotte agreed, without hesitation, before sobering a fraction in her exultation. "Well, that is, once you're recovered, of course. But what of the others? Surely you'd want to celebrate with Marcus, Alexander, and Cecelia."

But Cal shook his head at the suggestion, his hands falling away from the coffee cup. "It shall be just the two of us, since I doubt they'd enjoy a night at the theatre. You know how they prefer those atrocious dance halls, with what they deem as _music_," he bit out, before returning to his mask of composed perfection. "It's nothing of _real_ entertainment, at any rate."

Charlotte blinked. "The t-theatre?" she echoed, as if not hearing him correctly. "Are you certain, Daddy?"

Cal snorted. "Of course I am certain," he responded blandly, his hands now poised before a hidden, sharp smile. "Indeed, where else would I be entertained after such a terribly embarrassing ordeal as last night? Why, I doubt I shall be able to show my face in society again if I don't make an appearance at some public event—and not one of those godawful soirees that Abby Rockefeller tends to throw whenever she's town. No, it _must_ be the theatre for me, my dear, and in the company of the one person who rivals me in my love of it," he remarked in that legendary calm manner of his as he heard Charlotte laugh, and knew that she saw the cufflinks.

He almost grinned at her simplicity. All transgressions in missing the party had been forgiven in that moment. And all that it cost him was a night at the theatre. So easy, so very simple. Not to mention cheap. Well, cheap, compared to his attempt to acquire Rose's affections, of course. He doubted anything could ever trump the expense of what the Heart of the Ocean had been. He hadn't even spent that much on Felicia—before or after their marriage—and certainly not on his children.

A night at the theatre was pennies, compared to what that goddamned diamond had cost him, just as the thought of all that it meant put him in a deplorable mood. Looking once more at Charlotte, he considered her, standing there, obviously weary from worry and lack of sleep. He told her to go to bed.

Charlotte looked at him, her smile fading at the suggestion. "But, Daddy," she contested, a gentle plea to stay. It reminded Cal of the child she had once been, begging to stay up while he worked on the next day's business.

"It's eleven-thirty," he calmly pointed out, a subtle indication for her to leave.

Sighing in defeat, Charlotte obediently inclined her head and stood from her seat, though not before placing a confiding hand on his outstretched arm, a gentle squeeze reassuring him that she was here, _for_ _him_. The gesture almost touched him. Just as her words, "Goodnight, Daddy," almost made him turn and stop her retreating figure, if only to have her company a little longer. But his pride kept him silent, and he failed to watch her close the door, her footsteps fading away to the nothingness from which the were derived.

Muttering a curse, Cal scowled at his dilemma, the silence surrounding him almost mocking him. He hadn't the slightest in how he would continue his life after this night, knowing well enough that he'd have to change his schedule to where he visited the mill at night. It was either that, or, he figured, he would leave for the mill and be there, just before daybreak. He could keep the curtains closed in his office, and would only venture out onto the floors where the sunlight couldn't penetrate. He could stay in the shadows; he could manage it, he knew, although having outings with his colleagues during daylight hours was a different matter entirely. He had the grace not to roll his eyes at what a quandary his current situation had put _that_ part of his life in; he would think about that matter when the time came. There was no sense in worrying about it now—not when he already had so much on his mind.

As such, he set aside all thoughts of what he would do and wouldn't do, of how he would balance his new life and appear relatively the same to everyone he knew. He could adapt; he _had_ to. He had little choice otherwise.

A tired sigh escaped him as he looked down at his desk. Everything, as always, was in its place, for Cal was, if anything, a very meticulous man, who had to have _everything_ in its place. The coffee cup was the only thing that detracted from that well-balanced imitation of perfection. He almost snorted at its insignificance, taking in its porcelain white shape as he would one of his mill workers' lives. And yet, he reasoned, the coffee cup was _far_ more interesting than any of his workers, whom even his father had never given a damn about. It had been considerate of Charlotte to bring him something, and somewhere, deep inside of himself, he actually appreciated her consideration.

He then took the cup in hand, realizing how cold it had become. The cup was chilled, and he vaguely noticed that his hands, during the interim of his possession of it, had cooled the coffee within. He almost sneered at the realization, since everything he touched turned cold. _Or_ _frozen_ _to_ _death_, he thought bitterly, refusing to allow himself to go any further with his thoughts.

Instead, he closed his eyes and brought the cup to his nose, its rich scent, even cold, losing none of its potency. It was actually tempting to drink—even more, perhaps, than what his brandy would have been.

Shaking his head, he took a sip, and frowned. It was beyond bitter, the taste a sad disappointment. But its scent…Without thinking, he opened his eyes and pulled out a pocket knife that he kept in one of his drawers, next to the pistol he'd kept hidden for emergencies. He glanced at its pristine black surface briefly before taking the pocket knife in hand. He opened it and contemplated its short silver length before running it over the palm of his hand, the blade slicing through the tender skin with utmost efficiency.

He barely felt the pain the knife elicited, barely felt the small beads of crimson run across his hand, before falling into the coffee below it. He could smell it, of course, could smell the rich, tangy, coppery sweetness his blood carried. He glanced at the knife's edge and cleaned the remainder of his blood with his tongue before looking at his hand. Already the gash was healing, where not even a scar remained. He almost laughed at the irony of it before setting the pocket knife aside and taking the coffee cup in hand. He smelled the richness his blood added to its bland contents, and he smiled.

The coffee cup was empty before he set it down and went out into the night.

…

**Author's Note: I really want to first apologize for taking so long to update. I sadly have so many other writing projects going on at the moment that it's been difficult to work on all of them at the same time. That, and I admit that the first chapter to this story, in particular, was a bit of an experiment. Honestly, I really didn't think that people would actually **_**like**_** it, given its content and the whole take on the supernatural and everything with a film such as **_**Titanic**_**. But I am greatly relieved that such has been the opposite case! :)**

**I also realize that this is one seriously long chapter, and I apologize if it overwhelmed anybody. But, hopefully, it will make up for my lack of updates. Really, I hadn't intended for it to be this long, but that's how my writing turns out, ultimately. I would have made this chapter a lot shorter, but I just couldn't break it up into mini-chapters, since I tend do very long scenes and not mini-chapters. I hate mini-chapters. Writers can be such a tease with them sometimes; hence, the long, overly drawn-out chapters.**

**This chapter's first scene is also, I realize, loaded heavily with flowery language, but I wanted Cal's little 'dream sequence' to be one of metaphor and interpretation, since dreams are, usually, very strange, funny things. Really, we are seeing a lot the first scene through Cal's eyes, thus the very vivid description of **_**everything**_**. I just hope that Cal does not have too many of these 'dream sequences,' since I don't think my poor fingers or head can handle it. XD **

**I also plan not to raise the rating on this. There will be a heavy dose of language from this point on, but probably not enough to require an M-rating. I don't plan to have thoroughly graphic sex scenes, either; though, in the event I do, the rating **_**will**_** change.**

**And as a fair warning to everyone, I intend to break away from all of the Hollywood myths on vampires, since I don't see them as being all drop-dead-gorgeous, broodingly asexual, or sparkly. I plan to be truer to the folklore surrounding them more than what Hollywood and pop-culture writers of today happily dish out to an unsuspecting populace. Bram Stoker and Dr. Bob Curran, you are my heroes! :) **

**And concerning Jack, because I have a feeling that this might come up, this is **_**not**_** a **_**Jack**__**Lives**_** story. Again, the spotlight in this story belongs to Cal and Cal alone. So sorry, Jack. I really wasn't too happy having him with his own perspective in this chapter, but he moves it along, getting it where it needs to go. There is also an allusion to **_**Ghost**_**, earlier in that scene. I do hope that someone caught it. In a way, Cal is in a very similar situation as Sam was after dying.**

**The 'fashion Clydesdale' bit was something Billy Zane said of Cal. I thought it fitting to make mention of it when Cal is dressing himself! ^_^**

**Oh, and lest I forget, there is one, more important thing I must mention. The painting that Cal has made a sort of quasi-shrine to Rose is an actual painting done by Dante Gabriel Rossetti. It is called **_**Veronica Veronese**_**, and was painted around 1872. Everything that is mentioned in the chapter concerning it and Rossetti **_**is**_** based on historical fact. And strangely enough, when I was going through photo stills from **_**Titanic**_**, I came across one of Rose and Cal—one from the film's deleted scenes—that nearly startled me. Honestly, I was right flummoxed by it, since Rose's face and expression in that photo still looks almost exactly like the lady in the painting. No joke. Maybe my subconscious was working on a higher level, beyond my relatively normal thinking, but I believe I now understand **_**why**_** Cal had to have that painting, in particular. I do urge everyone to take a look at both. The photo still of Cal and Rose is on **_**Titanic's **_**IMDB page, in the photo gallery—I think No. 4 of 148; it's on the first page. **_**Veronica Veronese**_** is easy to find via Google Images. But I'll probably just add some links in my author's bio page in a couple of days, since that would save some time for everyone.**

**Anyway, I do hope that the chapter was all right. I am trying to keep Cal in-character as much as possible, since I really don't want to demonize him; but then, I don't want him to be some kind of fluffy, watered-down version of himself, either. Because, really, Cal is not **_**fluffy**_**.**

**And, something more importantly, I wholeheartedly wish to express my deepest thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed! Thanks so much, for your thoughts and comments; I greatly appreciate it, and also for the kind urging to next get this next chapter out! Thanks again, everyone!**

**Well, until Chapter Three, then!**

— **Kittie **


	3. Chapter Three: The Sins of the Son

Disclaimer: I do not own _Titanic_, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to James Cameron, Paramount Pictures, Twentieth Century Fox, and their respected owners.

Summary: March 1929. He has always possessed her, the claim on her made, long before either realized the consequences derived from it. For a man like Caledon Hockley was not one to give up that which he claimed so easily—not even from beyond the grave.

His Dark Possession

Chapter Three

…

Overseeing the Hockley Steel mill was as pedestrian as it was necessary. The continuous roar of machinery and burgeoning sounds of the furnaces, combined with the muffled talk of the workers who oversaw the mill, were an indicative sign to its owner that everything was as it should be, as Cal found nothing that required his attention. In fact, he had found no need to be out on the floor, since his foreman could handle well enough on his own. Only in the direst of circumstances was Cal's attention required, and that, he thought dryly, was very rare indeed.

He had been at the mill since before daybreak, having only returned to the mansion to find a change of clothes after his nightly jaunt into the city. He hadn't even felt the effects of a long night's gambling in some rundown brothel of questionable respectability. He certainly didn't feel the repercussions of being a few thousand dollars poorer, since, as of late, he'd been dealt a terrible hand in more ways than one.

Cal shook his head. The bastard who had benefitted from his loss would probably only waste it on women and drink, anyway. Not that he cared, of course; for what was a few thousand dollars, when he had millions? The mill's production would compensate him well enough, since a few thousand was nothing, compared to what the mill would produce in a day's time. He had money to burn—_literally_—if he wanted. And he had almost been tempted to, on occasion, but the more practical side of him—the more _Nathan Hockley_ side, more aptly—always refrained. He hadn't burnt a single dollar in the thirty-eight years of living in his father's shadow.

But it was a temptation…just as walking amongst his workers enticed him out of his refuge.

Nathan would have a fit, surely. Not that Cal cared, of course, since his father was never one to be counted among those who fed and maintained the creature that upheld their living unless it was absolutely necessary. For even when someone, who had the terrible misfortune of being caught in the machinery, would his father remain in the pristine sanctuary he deemed an office, and watch the horrible aftermath from afar.

A secretary would write out a letter of condolences—even though it was highly doubtful that anyone would be able to read it, much less appreciate its faux sincerity—to the family, since the employer of the unfortunate dead was unable.

Cal snorted at Nathan's lack of spine. In the twenty-five deaths that occurred under his leadership, he had written to each family personally. It was perhaps the one kindness he'd shown to those who worked for him, although it was more so an insult to his father, who had not written a single letter himself. And Cal had gotten good at it, if he were to be honest with himself. He doubted that Nathan would be coherent enough to compose a single line filled with human kindness and compassion, compared to a letter penned by his son, which lasted at least two pages. Cal had even included compensation—something in which Nathan would have never done—to each family.

And they had been grateful. They were _always_ grateful.

Just as such generosity would have given Nathan another heart attack.

A caustic grin came to his lips, since, although Nathan died in his sleep, a heart attack had been the cause. It hadn't been much of a surprise, either, since Nathan had always had problems of the heart. _It was almost poetic in a way, that he died because of it_, Cal thought cynically as he remembered the hell his mother endured because of his father's _heart_, his eyes darting about the immaculate office, to all that encompassed him.

Bookshelves, which held records of the mill, as well as the bookkeeping, aligned the navy and golden-hued walls—another change from the garish, chartreuse tint that his father so admired—as his desk engulfed the rest of the room. Cal frowned. It was the same damned desk his father sat at, managing the mill as the rest of the world passed by in a flurry of work around him. The chair was different, though, as was the phone he had installed, but the desk remained, the invisible ball and chain which shackled his father still there.

It had been implemented by his grandfather, something in which Nathan gladly carried into the next generation, just as it was something that Cal nearly carried himself until breaking with tradition, the leg shackle remaining without another unfortunate owner. He shook his head, knowing that he had, also, almost fallen into the same, monotonous cycle of being a company figurehead, by strictly remaining as a fixture in his office. And yet, he was never one to stay there for long, the massive stacks of paperwork truly a daunting thing to behold.

Though even more, Cal actually _preferred_ to be out among the great machines that changed chunks of iron into hot, liquid steel, than be sequestered in his office, cloistered away from the reality of what made his family so powerful. In truth, he failed to understand how Nathan _survived_ in the office. He doubted that he could count on one hand the number of times Nathan had been out on the floor, just for the hell of it.

With this in mind, Cal rose from his seat, the mountain of paperwork on his desk purposely ignored. His secretary would take care of it, as she always did, when he would not do so himself. It was not his obligation, anyway, since it was only something to keep him busy, when the long hours of sitting in his office wore on. He had honestly denied the twit of the work _she_ was supposed to do, not that he cared for her sensibilities regarding her depravation, or the fact that he'd just left hours of paperwork to compensate for any past grievance on his part. She'd probably be at the mill until nightfall. The thought of her heavily engulfed in paperwork made Cal smile; she had been his father's secretary—and surely a little more than that—after all, and, in essence, probably deserved it, given how _everything_ was work to her. _Even whoring herself_, he considered darkly, as he again thought of his father, fucking her, their mutual secretary, as his mother lay dying.

He hesitated at the thought of his mother, recalling how he sat there, in an expressionless daze, as she attempted to console him with her pitiful words of comfort. She had even confessed how much she had loved him, and how proud she was of his accomplishments.

_You are nothing like your father_.

She had not said the words, but the impression of them was there, in those fading grey eyes, since both knew where his father was. His hands clenched at the memory, recalling how his father, who was hours too late, had not even expressed the faintest hint of remorse for his infidelity. Cal glowered at the wall that adjoined his office to that of the secretary's. He probably should have fired the whore when he took over the company, but the thought of tormenting her with his coldness and indifference was far more appealing; and besides which, as with any of Nathan's mistresses, she took it, even though Cal never indulged her in more than just a paycheck, although her looks were still bearable. As a rule, he never shared his father's women. It was too degrading for him to even consider as a form of revenge.

Forgetting his father's depravity, he gave the office a final glance—which he kept deeply cloaked in darkness—he departed from it, and joined the world without. He looked about the mill, and almost laughed as he descended down the curving steel staircase to the main floor, noticing a few of the bemused stares and looks of disbelief he received from his workers. They had certainly heard of his little _accident_, and had probably expected that they would not see him for days. Cal almost grinned at their gullibility. How wrong they had been, to assume such a ridiculous thing. He ignored them, with their silent expressions, entirely, remaining in the shadows as he observed the many furnaces producing Hockley steel.

The heat from the fires nearly seared his cold flesh, burning him as that of an open fire. It was a most welcoming experience, as he gazed upon the blinding heat. Cal closed his eyes, the brilliant, red darkness engulfing him in sunsets long since passed, and of a face, both living and dead, with hair as brilliant as the sun, set against the distant, dark waves of his memories. A pair of white arms encircled him then, their coldness a crude juxtaposition to the blazing intensity he presently felt. He could almost taste the blood underneath the porcelain, ivory-toned flesh, his teeth almost breaking through that flawless marble, tasting its hidden contents…

Shaking his head, he muttered a sharp oath, suppressing a need for something he had little care to acknowledge. He'd only had a cup of coffee, added with a hint of his own blood, in the privacy of his office this morning. He didn't even look at where he'd cut himself, knowing that the wound had already healed. He made a face. As surely, to those who desired it, his blood had been a poor substitute to that which was readily available. He had a score of workers on hand whose blood could slake his thirst, but the thought of drinking from the dregs of those who served him left a bitter taste in his mouth. He hadn't even considered the possibility of doing so among his own class, much less to those whose presence he barely tolerated on a daily basis. His blood would _have_ to suffice; there was no other alternative.

He quickly dispelled his discomfort, and instead chose to observe those who worked around him. The furnaces in front of him had been added during his tenure, the expense of their inclusion believed necessary, since they were a far cry, compared to the primeval devices installed during his father's reign over the mill. _They are less of a hazard, as well_, Cal reflected quietly as he watched a man pour hot, molten iron into a mold for railway tracks. He narrowed his gaze at the care the man had for each mold. It wasn't like he cared for the safety of those who worked under him, but neither did he want the mill responsible for another fatality. Compensation for more than a score of grieving widows and their ten children was damned expensive as it was; he did not need to add to that list, since he had made himself into a laughing stock with his _compassion_ among his contemporaries as it was. He doubted his reputation would survive if he took in every lowlife commoner who had lost someone under his care—the Pennsylvania law for workman's compensation be damned.

He moved on to the older part of the mill, to where the few blast furnaces that his father oversaw remained. Cal had made as many safety adjustments to the old furnaces as possible; but then, even that had not prevented the deaths of those who worked them. They also produced the worst of the injuries and fatalities suffered, since most that died came out of them, barely recognizable. Nathan had been indifferent to all of it, just as Cal, being only a boy of eight, and wandering mill after his history studies, had seen such firsthand.

He remembered the shouts of the workmen surrounding him, heard their worn, leather shoes scuffling against the floor as the cries of a dying man resounded in his ears. He had not seen the man they pulled out of the furnace, only barely glanced at the carnage that had _once_ been a man. But even that had been enough, as he turned to the office window that contained his father's silhouette in askance, wondering if his father would do _something_.

But nothing had been done. The man had not attempted to do a goddamn thing, had not even breathed, as Cal could recall, as he turned away from the sight and resumed his work. Nathan's indifference was a lesson well-learned by Cal that day, just as every other causality was brushed aside by the man he had once called 'Father'.

_And now, I am in_ his _place_, he mused bitterly, as he stared upon the furnaces that had both terrified and fascinated him in his youth. Very few of the workmen tended to them, at any rate, since Cal felt that the newer furnaces required more attention. He was about to dismiss his interest in them entirely until something caught his eye. His eyes narrowed into dark slits as he saw something beyond the flames, where a shape, dark and nebulous, and yet no less distinguishable, moved about the fiery chasm. Cal's bemused expression shifted to one of disbelief as everything went cold in that moment. The heat from the fires could not raise the chilling sensation as it had previously done, for could how they inspire anything, other than the tangible denial that Cal presently felt as he stared at a man he had known to be long dead.

The man been one of his father's workers, he recalled, having once seen a photograph of the deceased on his father's desk. It had been left by the county coroner, who had come to claim the body until the family could make preparations. Cal had been kept away from the horror of that particular incident, though in vain. The man's image had been burned into his memory, since his face was all that Cal could visibly see, compared to the rest of the body, those stone-dead, cold blue eyes looking up from the photo, haunting him.

And now, that same man, with less than half a body, lingered about the furnace that killed him. Cal suppressed the urge to vomit. _Something I have been doing a lot of late, it seems_. He snorted at his own morbidity as he looked upon the ghostly apparition, wholly transfixed by it, those charred, black hands mocking the movements of those alive. It hadn't even made an indication that it even noticed Cal—that was, until, to Cal's dismay, it turned its graying dark dead in his direction, those haunting blue eyes meeting his, as it then knew that Cal saw it.

Cal returned to his office before it made to speak, or do something as equally disturbing. He barely withstood the ignorance of those he presently employed; he doubted he could bear those who died under Nathan, let alone his own employ, as they blamed him for their deaths. _Just as I would be blamed for every death on the seas that night_. He glowered at the thought, and stared at the door in which he had locked, knowing how useless it would be against a ghost, just as how his still heart refused to quaver in fear. He grasped the coffee cup he'd left on his desk, barely resisting the urge to throw it against the wall.

Instead, however, he set it down and stormed to the window. He looked down; glancing over the entirety of the mill before setting his eyes on what had disconcerted him. His dark expression contorted into one of disbelief as it was then that he saw _them_, gathered together in some sort of macabre assembly, burned and decayed, their dead, hollow stares looking up at the office window, looking at him. Cal shook his head. There had to at least be around twenty, if not more, as each one had been some unfortunate bastard who had died under his father's watch…

_Shit_.

He turned away from their gaping visages, and half-wondered if his father had fallen under the same scrutiny. He doubted it, since the bastard never believed in such things as ghosts. But then, neither had he…until recently. _First that whore, and then Dawson, then the blood, and now _this.

It was a nightmare, all of it. And yet, it was just as real as the hunger that pained every fiber of his being; but even that could be temporarily sated—if he stomached the courage to indulge himself, that was. He had even entertained the thought of Nathan still being alive, embracing the man in all that was filial affection, before draining the bastard dry. He would be every part of a Hockley then, although he had more than his share of Hockley blood coursing through his veins as it was. He certainly didn't need another drop of that damnably enriching blood, despite its long lasting lineage.

Shaking his head at the thought, he returned to his desk, and remembered the time. He vaguely glanced at his pocket watch, although he already knew that it was still several hours before sunset. He would be trapped here for the duration of that time, imprisoned by the self-imposed fear of facing a plethora of specters that had found no rest in death. He would have to deal with them sooner or later, he knew, although he wished for nothing more, than to disregard them entirely. But now that he knew that he could see them…what would they do?

Though even more, what did they want of him? Everyone wanted something from him; he highly doubted that the dead were any different. But what could those from beyond the grave want? Money? Revenge? He certainly, as hell, could not grant them the former, although that was the more preferable alternative. He almost dreaded to consider the age-old parable of the sins committed by the father visiting the son. He had been a child or away at school when most of the deaths happened, and had no part in his father's doings, or the lack of compensation given to the surviving family. He was nothing like his predecessor, and he would be damned if he were to pay for Nathan's mistakes.

He almost wished that the bastard was still alive.

Almost.

For nearly a decade, he had lived beyond his father's shadow, at last able to breathe, to finally _live_. He was finally free to do whatever the hell he wanted, and that included taking one whom he considered a daughter and enjoying an evening with her at the theatre—something, he was sure, that Nathan would strongly disapprove of. _But then, the bastard is not here to disapprove, is he_? he idly questioned himself.

The beginnings of a sardonic smile returned to his face, as he took the phone on his desk in hand and summoned his secretary. His grin deepened when he heard her flustered voice through the line—certainly created by the paperwork she'd taken from his desk—when she asked, if timidly, what she could do for him.

"It's nothing so troubling, I assure you," Cal said automatically, full of indifference. "I simply want private seats at the theatre this evening. I also require that the day's paperwork and tickets be on my desk before five. Do be certain to have everything in order, before I leave this evening, Iris. I should hate to be late."

He hung up the phone before he could hear her response, since he could already hear the muffled expletives she used to describe him. He almost laughed at her creativity. Indeed, as a reward for such, he would be sure to inundate her with every scrap of paperwork for the next five years.

He absently raked his tongue over his teeth in triumph, knowing just how damned wonderful it was to be the one in power.

…

The Carnegie Musical Hall was packed for the evening. Scores of people flooded the halls and corridors as the Grand Foyer boasted only the upper crust of society. Men wore their evening's finest, whereas their wives and mistresses complimented their attire in gowns befitting royalty. Their idle chatter and the tinkling of champagne glasses, filled to the brim, echoed like a Brahmsian composition against the dark marble Corinthian columns and vaulted ceiling. The close, almost intimate, familiarity was warm outwardly, as each fellow hailing from that exclusive membership was welcomed with a few kind words of civility and offered an invitation for a night on the town after the show ended.

Laughter bounced against the gilded walls, the vigor of a thousand, merry voices a dense cacophony, amid the glittering beauty that personified the highest definition of luxury. Both sexes congregated the upper level and the floor below, their silhouettes cutting a dramatic contrast against the ivory walls, as the chandeliers added to their temporal beauty. Talk of the latest equine darling at the races and stocks and shares dominated the evening's discussion among the more masculine circles, whilst fashion and the upcoming Season concerned those of the fairer sex.

It was almost as if nothing had changed, as if the war from a decade ago had never happened, for everyone smiled and tipped their glasses to the glory of the moment, forgetting everything that would steal away from their fleeting joy. And Cal, who mingled among those familiar, smiling, laughing, foolish, pathetic faces, could not recall a time when he had felt so claustrophobic.

Charlotte had been his sole means of comfort, as she stood by his side, beautifully dressed and composed, her gentle manner and soft-spoken voice allaying the suffocating feel of a life he had once, strangely, enjoyed. For if he still had the ability to breathe, he would surely die from lack of oxygen, the myriad of perfumes he smelled—some of which were very poor in quality—sequestering his senses, as some of the scents, which were surely masked underneath layers of clothing, were no better than the bottled rose water that prostitutes used in the north end of town. He counted himself fortunate that Charlotte was more selective in her choice of scent, since the fine French perfume she purchased outshone all within the foyer.

_Her beauty is also to be commended_, he thought neutrally, as he could now physically compare his daughter's uncharacteristic beauty to the crows who paraded themselves as Charlotte's equals. She had chosen a subdued, mint-green evening gown for the occasion, her hair done up in a fashion predating her birth. A string of pearls complimented her wrist and neck, whereas her contemporaries chose more lavish charms, something in which Cal found completely tasteless, given how modesty dictated something a little less garish for the theatre, most especially given the content of what they were about to see.

He concealed the desire to roll his eyes at their promiscuity, as Charlotte's gentle laughter calmed his restlessness immensely. How he longed to abandon this crowd of overindulgent fools and find their seats! However, having Charlotte at his side, in front of all to see, exemplified her as one of his many possessions, a crown jewel of the first water, where most daughters were considered a bargaining chip to many a father. It almost prided him to have her on his arm, as she entranced the whole of the crowd with only her winsome smile.

And yet, she was, to his dismay, also a beacon to those who were curious of his own misfortune. Cal nearly cringed when he came face-to-face with John D. Rockefeller's grandson, a man twenty-eight years his junior.

Cal nearly balked at the young man's pathetic interest, but suffered it for the sake of propriety.

"Oh, Hockley, what a dreadful thing you must have suffered. I heard all about it, when coming to town. I've even taken the liberty to inform Grandfather, who offers his condolences."

"Yes, we have all heard," said another, before Cal could respond. "It must have been horrifying, being attacked like that, and on your birthday, too! Terribly bad form, if I do say so myself."

"Do those who labor about the streets have no shame?" asked a portly gentleman from behind.

Cal laughed gaily at all of their enquiries, though refused to go into detail about his unfortunate mishap. Most accepted his brevity, not wanting to make a scene, whereas only a select few noticed that the brilliant, half-smile he granted them was laced with a poisonous mixture of hatred. For although forcefully drawn into explaining how he'd survived, and how he had recovered in only a scant two days after, he surprised many by how brief he expressed himself. He cared little for their attentions, knowing well enough that they all held some sort of morbid fascination of his being attacked. It disgusted him thoroughly.

The company's attention was soon directed elsewhere, and Cal had a moment to himself as Charlotte's interest was also engaged by a young man who dared breach the hallowed space of a most perceptive father. Cal watched them out of the corner of his eye, their hushed voices heard above the endless chatter. Their conversation was simple enough, given how they only talked of the impending performance and of Charlotte's return from boarding school, nothing too scandalous or shocking to consider inappropriate. Indeed, the young man who had charmed his daughter was none other than Albert Gainsborough, the son of a wealthy steel manufacturer in England. Cal had done business with the elder Gainsborough on occasion, as the son, who presently attended Princeton, and had known the Hockley family since childhood, had decided to make the States his permanent residence. _And a wise choice, too_, Cal observed quietly, as he continued to watch his daughter carefully.

The young man posed no particular threat to Charlotte, albeit he was a younger son whose inheritance would be precious little, compared to his elder brother, who would duly inherit the company and family fortune. He was a poor prospect for marriage, certainly, but Charlotte seemed to like the fellow; Cal could hear her heart race, her enthusiasm heightened by the continued pleasantries both exchanged. Cal inwardly grimaced. The boy wasn't even handsome, with his overly long nose and mousy-brown hair, his intelligent green eyes his one saving grace. Cal almost dreaded to consider what their children would look like—if such a thing happened, that was—since he doubted that his own sons would be as forthcoming, in continuing the Hockley line.

And yet, in spite of the young man's shortcomings, Cal sensed that the feelings on both sides were mutual; there was no ill intent on Albert Gainsborough's behalf, as he kindly accepted Charlotte's refusal to take a seat with his family at their own, private box.

"Forgive me, Albert, but Daddy and I are celebrating his birthday tonight. Perhaps next time, I shall be able to accept your offer—that is if Daddy approves, of course." She gave the disappointed Albert an endearing smile that lightened his mood considerably, and he nodded to Cal in respect.

Cal returned the gesture in kind, but said nothing in regards to allowing Charlotte to be in the company of another. In all honesty, he had no intention of having her sit elsewhere; he wanted her all to himself, and was proud of her foresight in declining a potential suitor's offer. It was a selfish wish, certainly, but Cal had never done anything less than looking after his best interests, or those whom he considered family.

He then took Charlotte by the arm, and, politely excusing their haste, led her away from a forlorn Albert Gainsborough. He ignored the curious stares they received in passing, as surely those who looked at him questioned how he could feel up to attending the theatre after such a traumatic experience. _Let them_, he thought as he led Charlotte out of the foyer, and down the corridor that led to their box. He no longer had the patience to subject himself to their scrutiny and listen to their hushed whispers about his lack of civility, since he could already imagine what it was that they thought of him. Even more, he was almost grateful that Charlotte hadn't questioned him, either, since she dutifully remained by his side, and took a seat when they entered their box.

The privacy he found there was a relief to him, just as the shadows—which obscured him from the eyes of a thousand pathetic voyeurs—concealed the enmity he presently felt towards them. Half of him wanted to rip the throats out of those who prattled on about their incessant little lives, whereas the other half wanted to retreat into a cloud of smoke and forget. He almost regretted leaving his cigar case at home, since he only carried a few cigarettes now, just as he truly regretted his sudden aversion of drinking his sorrows away. He barely noticed Charlotte, who looked about the wide expanse of the theatre, her gaze falling upon the orchestra.

She turned an appreciative smile to Cal. "Isn't it wonderful, Daddy? I am so glad that you thought of the theatre; it's certainly better than staying at home!" she commented in a contented whisper, her hands blindly grasping for the opera glasses in her silk purse.

Cal gave her a considerate smile, though it was half-forced. Truly, the simplest gesture could turn her pretty blonde head. But strangely, he actually found himself _enjoying_ her company, most especially since she seemed to be the only person who bothered to trouble herself in making him happy, without expecting anything in return. She had even agreed to attend a performance of _Faust_, of all things. But then, Charlotte was fluent in French, and Cal thought the opera aptly fitting, given its content. He smiled genuinely then as he turned his attention to the stage, the evening's performance one he'd not seen since his Harvard days—a veritable classic among those of his father's generation—as he felt a semblance of something familiar in his otherwise chaotic life.

Seeing it again was almost like a balm to an aching wound, which had only begun to heal. But then, it seemed that many had desired to see it—or at least, gave the indication of seeing it—since every seat in the house was filled. Cal could only wonder what kind of powerful, persuasive techniques his secretary had used, as the woman had, somehow, miraculously, gotten the tickets, as well as finishing the day's paperwork. It was a feat in which Cal had never imagined accrediting her, much less believing her capable of. Perhaps he should renege on his earlier threat, but then decided against it. After all, he was never one to go back on his word; and besides, he had a show to watch.

Charlotte turned and offered him her opera glasses, noticing that he was without his spectacles; but he quietly declined her offer, finding that, unlike his daughter, he could see infinitely better without them. "Better you keep them, my dear," he muttered under his breath. "Knowing your old father, he would accidently drop them on Nelson Carnegie's head." He reveled in Charlotte's soft laughter, which she barely concealed behind a gloved hand.

"He is rather boorish," she returned, almost inaudibly, surprising Cal. "I cannot believe he had the gall to enquire over what happened. Has he no decency?" she asked, meeting her father's gaze.

Cal cast Charlotte a meaningful look, as if genuinely at a loss for her sudden defense of him. He said nothing in response, only grasped her hand in reassurance and silently urged her to enjoy the show.

The lights dimmed and the orchestra proceeded with the performance's opening act; however, before the curtain raised, a man in a fine evening suit—surely the stage manager—addressed the audience: "Ladies and gentlemen, do pardon the interruption, but a cast member has unfortunately fallen ill, and we must postpone the performance momentarily. We shall begin in ten minutes' time, as the role of Siébel will be played by Mrs. Emilia Stratford, since our beloved Ms. Dawson cannot be with us tonight."

Cal was nearly out of his seat when he heard the name, but restrained himself from any further action. He disregarded Charlotte's concerned look as he stared at the vacant stage, deeply immersed in thought. _It couldn't be_. It. Could. Not. Fucking. Be…

Could it?

He refused to consider the possibility, and passed it off as a strange coincidence. Rose was not here. She was not suffering from some, terrible malaise in a dressing room, backstage. She was not an actress; she wasn't even _alive_. He simply wouldn't believe it.

Immediately abandoning the thought, he returned his attention to the stage, and the many, many faces of those whose existence meant precious little to him. He could smell the blood in each person, that precious liquid flowing through a million capillaries. He could smell the vitality in the young, a taste of alcohol in others, and even death in a few who tried to hide their illness. Imbibing in their blood was surprisingly tempting, and Cal closed his eyes as the darkness and the orchestra and a thousand beating hearts surrounded him. He barely heard Faust's opening monologue—a veritable bastard in his own right—as he listened to the beautiful symphony composed by the natural beating of a human heart instead.

How he had failed to before notice something so intrinsic and sublime and beautiful astounded him. He was almost embarrassed by his former ignorance, his senses, though hindered by his denial of them, heightened by what he had become. And, in a way, he came to embrace it when he looked upon the actor portraying Faust. He almost chuckled, finding that he shared in the man's irony.

_Perhaps I have sold my soul, after all_, he mused sardonically, although the one who had given him such power had the face of a Margarete, but had been a Mephistopheles behind the angelic façade.

For if the stories were to be believed, and he had already had his fair share in discovering how true they were…

He glanced at the faces of those shrouded in darkness, and then at Charlotte, a decision made as he watched the rest of the opera in silence.

…

It was well past midnight when Cal and Charlotte left the theatre, the latter barely holding her head up as Cal found himself half-leading, half-carrying her to the black Rolls-Royce. He disregarded his driver's attempt to open the door as he opened it himself and placed Charlotte in the back seat, the young woman already asleep the moment she sat down. He noticed a faint smile on her sleeping face, and shook his head when he propped one of the car's cushions behind her head. He then turned to meet his driver's gaze, finally acknowledging the man.

"Take her home; I have a few things left to do in town," he said, brooking no room for argument when his driver gaped at him, clearly in doubt. Cal left the man staring after him as he turned away and walked down the street. His driver would take Charlotte home; there was little doubt of that, since he never allowed those in his employ to question him. If they did, he fired them without hesitation. After Felicia, he never allowed anyone to question his authority again.

In the distance of his thoughts, he heard the car drive away, his daughter safe from what he was about to see, let alone do. He continued down the street, his stride slow, almost without purpose. But then, he hastened his step, his eyes widening in surprise when he found himself running past everything in sight—something he could, no longer, physically, do, and had only ventured to now test his full potential—as even the streetlights became naught but a blur to him in the night. He passed by people, who, he was sure, hadn't even seen him, the world spinning around him. He felt as if he could jump from the Liberty Bridge, and come out of it, wholly intact; for what he presently felt was, he was sure, the equivalent to taking a shot of morphine. It was a dizzying, most edifying sensation that bore no consequences. _I shall certainly not face the wrath of another drunken hangover_.

It wasn't long until he found himself in the north end of town, the decaying buildings and hazy streetlamps as familiar to him as the more lavish and developed part of the city. For like many of his colleagues, who kept their knowledge of such places discreet, Cal had frequented Pittsburgh's underbelly for years, enjoying many a rampant and wild night in the arms of a comely prostitute. Nathan had frowned upon Cal's choice of company, certainly, claiming that his son would soon regret his nightly intrigues. For, unlike Nathan, who was much more selective in his choice of intimate companionship, Cal slivered through the more questionable parts of town, indulging himself in what Pittsburgh's slums could offer him. And he had found much—almost too much, in some respects.

Cal refused to recall just how close he'd once come to being shot over winning at a hand of cards. The bullet had only grazed his upper bicep, leaving only the barest hint of a scar, but it had been enough for Nathan to employ that prick of a Pinkerton, Spicer Lovejoy, to watch over his son. Cal had hated the man upon sight. He'd had no need for a man who played a constant nursemaid to him, since the bastard followed him around like a second shadow, in the darkened streets that had become a retreat for him—from the overbearing presence of his father. But then, if he were to be truly honest with himself, Lovejoy had only been a tool, a means in which he could acquire whatever he desired without getting his own hands dirty. That was Lovejoy's specialty, after all.

He balked at the thought of the many things he'd had the man do; he'd done well enough on his own after losing Lovejoy, certainly. The body hadn't even been recovered after the sinking, not that Cal cared, of course, since Nathan failed to bother in making a search for it. It was one less salary the Hockley dynasty had to pay, since Lovejoy had no living relatives to make a claim on his wages or personal effects. Lovejoy was nothing more than a terrible memory, washed away with the tide.

Cal set the thought of the former Pinkerton aside, his attention drawn to a building at the far end of the street. A couple of men, both dressed in the shoddy wares of the working class, passed through its fake, gilded framed doors as the sounds of laughter, drink, and women welcomed all from without. It lulled him like a siren's call.

Madame Butterfly's.

Cal grinned darkly. The proprietress had chosen the name well, just as her establishment was more than a simple brothel, given how half of Pittsburgh's political giants frequented the house on a nightly basis. There had even been rumors that a former American president had immersed himself in all that was freely given him, usually at an additional cost, given his status.

For Cal's part, he never mixed business and politics with pleasure, unless it benefited him in some way. He honestly couldn't say the same for a few of his colleagues, who sometimes suffered the consequences derived from their own folly, for a tarnished name could never be restored to its former glory. It had been a hard lesson learned, since Nathan made for certain that those who followed in his line would never shame the Hockley name. _And I haven't_, Cal considered quietly as he proceeded toward his destination, the gaudy doors opening and revealing the painted faces of several amorous women.

"Cal…_darling_," one of them cooed, in a sickeningly, saccharine voice that belay its true intent. "It's been a long time. How we've missed you."

"Indeed, we've gone months, without having the pleasure of _your_ company," another chortled, her blonde, corkscrew curls bouncing gaily with every word she imparted.

Cal returned the gesture with a deceptive smile of his own. _I haven't shamed the family name, at all_, he considered again, as he accepted the advances of one woman in particular—a whore whose rouge-covered face was as faded as the dye in her red hair—and allowed her to lead him to her private quarters. Cal laughed at her brazen naïveté_. I'd have to lose my money first_.

A triumphant laugh escaped from him as he welcomed her every touch, her every caress as the darkness engulfed the tiny room. Cal vaguely glanced at the crimson walls and dark drapes, the faux tiger rug in front of the fireplace adding to the tasteless décor, as the bed itself, was nothing but a garish sight, with its black silk sheets and cracked golden frame. Cal nearly recoiled. But then, he should have expected no less from a house of ill repute. Men of his caliber came to play cards and enjoy themselves, not to remark on the house's interior design, which was, in Cal's opinion, wholly deplorable. But the luscious creature, who was now lavishing him with all of her attention, made him forget his aversion, when she urged him to join her on the bed and thus began a downward path from his throat and beyond.

And Cal allowed himself to indulge her, his mind in a haze as he puffed away on a cigar, his senses drugged by the intoxicating smell of her blood. He barely noticed her presence otherwise, the soft thrumming of her heartbeat a bewitching melody against the pain that besieged him from within. He noticed a faint trace of opium whenever she kissed him, her green eyes enhanced by its latent effects. He wanted to bite her, wanted to consume the drug through her blood. He was certain it would be far more gratifying, than when she had devoured it with the cheap wine he also tasted. He was certain that _she_ would taste even better, her blood the key to his salvation, as it were.

He was at her throat before he could consider the consequences, his mouth poised above the living vessel that offered him such divine pleasure. He would only need to break through the thin layer of skin to acquire it. He felt his teeth ache at the phantom sensation, and he closed his eyes, breathing in her musky, rose water scent. She was already asleep—even before they had finished—as those dull, green eyes concealed themselves from his empowering gaze.

There would be no struggle. She would not fight him, given her present state. He could take as much as he wanted, without having to worry over the possibility of being discovered. He could even take the last drop; savor it as he looked upon a life that he so efficiently, if not tactfully, ended, the vision of her forever embedded in his memory. She would be forever beautiful if he were to claim her now. Age, alcohol, and disease would not touch her. In reality, he would be doing her a kindness. He doubted that any of her other clientele would be as forthcoming. Death was the only answer.

His teeth lay against the delicate column of her throat, the throbbing artery underneath waiting patiently to be claimed. Waiting to bleed out its sanguine wonder, over the pale, naked body he overshadowed. Waiting for him. _Just as Rose would have been, if she had lived_, he considered bitterly as he took in the prostitute's face…

…And saw only Rose.

For there she lay, in a state of ecstasy, cold and helpless, as the one she loved decided to end her life, though this time by his own hand.

He wanted to vomit.

Pulling away from the prostitute, he withdrew from the bed completely, not once looking upon his almost-victim as he hastily collected his belongings. He barely registered putting on his suit, which had lain in a rumpled mess on the floor. He failed to button the length of his coat as he blindly grasped a few bills from his wallet and laid them on the nightstand, the woman in the bed completely forgotten when Cal took his leave and departed from her side.

He dimly noticed a few of the questioning stares he received from some of the other prostitutes, but he cared not for their assumptions; he had to leave. Now. Before he did something that, even he, might come to regret.

_Was this what you meant, in controlling myself, Dawson_? he demanded furiously of his adversary, glowering at the night's sky for an answer. He received only silence, however, the pain in his stomach intensifying with each forced step. He swore violently. Shooting at Dawson had been…So. Much. Easier. But then, he never had to a lay a _hand_ on the gutter rat as he would have to with this present dilemma. He shook his head; his control had deteriorated in less than a day, since he could no longer guarantee Charlotte's safety, as well as those he knew and worked with. He could kill them all so easily.

He cried out in anger, and his hands came to his face, obscuring his frustration from the rest of the world.

God. How was he going to endure it? The very thought of drinking something so wretched, shamefully enough, appealed to him, but the realization of _how_ he had to acquire it pained him even worse than the hunger pangs that presently plagued him. He had little choice, however. He had to have blood. _Even if it is solely my own_. And with this understanding, he tore at one of his shirtsleeves and bit his wrist, staggering into the darkness of an alley as he gorged himself on his own blood.

He made a face as he drank. It was a pathetic alternative, he knew, but the thought of consuming the life of another—even for one whose existence he cared so little—compelled him to choose this course. He would survive on himself. He _had_ to. There was no other choice.

Thus resolved, he righted his shirtsleeve, hiding the already healing wound underneath its pristine cuff. He absently buttoned his jacket, his mind on everything but the flaccid figure lying in a mound of ebony sheets: breathing, beautiful, and still, very much, alive. Cal sighed as he reached for a cigarette in his jacket pocket and lit it.

He breathed in its hazy mixture, before exhaling in the same breath. He could have gone through with it, he knew, but the thought of doing so made his sickness return, the cigarette instantly forgotten as it fell from his hand, going out on the damp pavement. He tried vomiting, but found he could not, and he silently cursed his misfortune. Even that little luxury had been taken from him. He almost laughed at his fate, as he left the alley and continued down the street.

He looked at the buildings, taking in every detail of the towering dark shapes—something he could never do before, let alone appreciate—of each as his thoughts returned to his plight. He glanced at a broken glass window a few feet away, seeing nothing but the vacuous emptiness that greeted him. He turned away from it, resisting an urge to punch a hole through the remaining glass. "If immortality is nothing but this ongoing nightmare, then I'd rather die now," he muttered to himself, and he reached for another cigarette.

"That can be arranged," said someone from behind.

Cal stilled in his movements, his body tensing as if a gun was pressed to the back of his head, before his eyes fell upon the voice's origin.

"Lovejoy."

He said it as if it was the most natural thing in the world, but the underlying tone of disbelief in his voice revealed his surprise. He took in the ghostly figure, half-doubting the apparition real as he considered the haunted visage of one he had only thought of hours before. Blood trailed down one side of the man's face, forever leaving a trail of crimson upon the otherwise pale countenance. He looked as Cal remembered him, down to that glaring expression he'd so often used on those he intimidated. It was almost amusing, in a way.

Giving the former Pinkerton a nod of acknowledgement, Cal was about to address the man before finding a ghostly fist embedded in his stomach.

"I've been waiting a long time to see you again, Mr. Hockley," Lovejoy said as Cal bent over in obvious pain. He smiled when he heard a stifled groan as he thrust a reeling Cal against the wall of a dark brick building. He caught sight of a small trickle of blood from Cal's busted lip and laughed. "You still can't fight your own battles, can you?" he mocked, another fist driving into his quarry's gut. "Of course not; you always had someone to fight them for you, since you never could do _anything_ for yourself. You couldn't even manage to kill _him_. You're a pathetic fool, Mr. Hockley."

Cal flinched under the second blow, but refused to cry out. He would not give Lovejoy the satisfaction, especially since the prick had the gall to mention Dawson. His jaw clenched and he forced himself to face the man who had rendered him into such a pathetic position. "If you believe me so useless," he began mordantly, "then perhaps you should take your grievances up with my father. He was the one who employed you, after all."

Lovejoy snorted. "As if your father could do anything for you now," he reproached scornfully, and cast a disdainful look at Cal. "I knew that, one day, I would find you here, since I always had to follow you into this filthy slum. Look at you: still sleazing about in the squalor that your class despises, yet indulges itself in. Ever the hypocrite, I see."

He received a glower in return. "I never asked you to follow me," Cal muttered as he felt Lovejoy's grip on him lessen. "I don't even know _why_ I can see you, or all of the other dead bastards I've seen today."

"Can't you?" Lovejoy shot back, impatiently. "Immortality is a damned funny thing, full of surprises. I'm sure you've even had your fair share of them of late, isn't that so, Mr. Hockley?"

Cal's grim expression darkened, the pain in his gut, at last, receding. "That would be none of your goddamned business."

"Of course it wouldn't be," Lovejoy drawled sarcastically. "But then, it really doesn't matter, given the fact of how you're no longer in a position to fire me. Can you even imagine the shit I endured, just so that your father remained in a constant state of ignorance? Oh, you wouldn't, since you never cared for your father's opinion. But I had to, and look where it's gotten me," he muttered, and Cal understood his meaning, seemingly for the first time.

It was the sole reason in why Lovejoy's restless spirit had not been with the others who'd perished; he'd been searching for Cal all along. _Perhaps in having some form of revenge_, Cal concluded quietly, as he eyed the man with his bloodied face and sodden black suit.

"I should never have taken you up on that damned offer—as if you would have given me that stupid diamond!" Lovejoy sneered, breaking Cal out of his reverie. "It wasn't worth trudging through that water, only to find myself confronted by that filthy bastard and slut. Although what you saw in that whore is beyond me. Why, I would have—"

He didn't have the chance to finish as a hand, surprisingly, collided against his hollow cheek. His pale eyes widened in surprise, a feeling, akin to pain, surmounting his intangible form. "I-impossible," he croaked out under another sharp blow, a part of him fading to nothingness. "You cannot t-touch the dead. It's impossible."

"So you've said," asserted Cal callously. "I suppose immortality _is_ a damned funny thing, after all. Wouldn't you say, Lovejoy? It _is_ so full of surprises." He had the audacity to laugh, his sharp teeth glinting in the dingy, pale lamplight.

The sight made Lovejoy cringe. "You've changed," he reflected, taking in the horrid monstrosity before him. "What _are_ you?"

Cal regarded him coldly. "A nightmare," he said simply. "Nothing more and certainly nothing less, I assure you."

Lovejoy said nothing in return, only stared at the condemning figure before him. This man radiated darkness; it was in the very nature of his being. However, the former Pinkerton would not go so far to say that Cal was the epitome of evil, but the man was damn well close; for if he measured the gauge of the force Cal had placed into that blow to his face correctly, then that cold, dead heart still felt some semblance of human feeling. It was evident that the bastard still had feelings for the little slut. Lovejoy smirked. How convenient.

Straightening himself to full height, Lovejoy regarded the man before him, that hard, dark gaze revealing nothing as to Cal's inner thoughts. His sick joy intensified. "You know," he said, breaking the silence between them, "it was perhaps best that I came across you, since I never had the chance to tell you what happened after we parted ways."

Cal frowned. "As if I have any wish or care for what happened," he rejoined, his patience obviously wearing thin.

"You might," Lovejoy returned, matter-of-factly. "In fact, I do believe you would care to know very greatly, since, if my suspicions prove correct, then you would most certainly wish to finally learn of what happened to your lovely fiancée." He moved swiftly out of Cal's reach. "Now, now, Mr. Hockley, I'll not say one word if you touch me again," he warned, and only continued when Cal relented. "Of course, after you chased—_pursued_ Miss DeWitt Bukater and Mr. Dawson into the dining hall, they suspected _someone_ would follow them, especially since they had no means of escape."

"No means of escape?" Cal broke in suddenly.

Lovejoy caught Cal's anxious gaze. "The doors to the service area were locked," he explained. "But, as we come to it, I should say that, after having caught up with them, they managed to elude me: by delving even deeper into the ship—not something I would advise, given the vessel's state—since I thought them at least competent enough to go back above deck. But apparently, there are even greater fools in love, than in war. It's funny how she was given the chance to get into a lifeboat _twice_, but decided to remain on a _sinking_ _ship_," he mused sarcastically. "But then, given the choice of returning to you and everything you could give her, or to live a short, happy life with another, I must commend her for choosing a slow death in the ocean with that fool. It seems that your Rose was no less than unpredictable, although I doubt she desired such an ending to her happiness."

Cal said nothing for a long moment, only stared at the pavement, before lifting his gaze to meet Lovejoy's. "So she is dead, then," he concluded flatly. "I've known that for _seventeen_ _goddamn_ _years_, just as I also know that you've wasted my time. Did you think to give me false hope, before crushing it? You're as stupid a bastard as when I offered to give you that diamond. Did you really believe I would give it _to_ _you_?" He laughed at Lovejoy's chagrined expression. "You're an even greater fool than my father, since he had to pay for its loss. But then, you merely lost your life—something that, assuredly, was not worth the three million my father lost. I certainly regretted the money's loss, more than I ever did yours."

Lovejoy's hollow face twisted in anger. "Perhaps," he said in return, that firm intonation harboring all but agreement. "And yet, I see that you still carry her ring." He pointed to the waistcoat pocket that held Rose's engagement ring. "You haven't gotten over her, no matter the lies you tell yourself. You can now see the dead, though I can only wonder if you have seen that which you long to see beyond your memories and imagination. Have you seen her, Mr. Hockley? Has she sought you out, as I have? Or has she regretted every waking moment when she left your side to be with that boy?" he questioned, smirking mockingly, and received only a cold glare. "Apparently not, then. What a pity. I'd thought better of your abilities in coercion, since you tend to make your own luck. Perhaps you are not so lucky in that particular regard, Mr. Hockley."

He dodged Cal's charge with utmost efficiency, the forthcoming blow connecting with solid brick. "I was quite prepared this time, I assure you," Lovejoy laughed as he took his former employer by the shoulder and shoved Cal's forehead against the brick, a harsh cracking sound following in its wake, before the latter fell to the ground, gasping in visible pain. He smiled when he heard his adversary cry out in shock of his cracked skull, the agony in each strangled curse a melody to his dead ears, the wealth of blood from the now-gaping wound an added bonus.

Smirking, he leaned over the now broken Cal, reveling in the pain he'd longed to bestow upon the bastard himself. "How does it feel to be the one who finds himself forced on his knees? Oh, you've never been there, have you? And it appears that hunger of yours is getting the better of you," he derided coldly. "You can't expect to live on yourself for long, since that's what you've been doing, isn't it? You can't even find the courage to do the deed yourself; you cower in the shadows and feast off of yourself, like a pathetic child. Your father was right about you, Mr. Hockley, since it is little wonder _why_ I always had to clean up the messes of a petulant, little failure of a child. And that's what you are, Mr. Hockley: a failure. I am even sure that Miss Rose discovered the same, since she chose death over a lifetime with an embarrassment like yourself."

Cal, despite the pain, looked up, his eyes expressing what his silence could not.

Lovejoy gave him a cursory glance, the model figure that had once been Caledon Hockley, heir to a steel empire, was now a practical mess—no matter the dark well of power that lay deep within, untapped. For if the man were to, somehow, manage to unlock it…Lovejoy dared not consider the limitless possibilities such represented. But for now, the man was weak, only a pathetic shell of something, potentially greater. It was almost pitiable, in a way.

"I've gotten what I've come for, and I can now, finally, move on. But I shall leave you with this one, single kindness, Mr. Hockley: you assume too much, since some ghosts are as alive and are as real as the memories that inspire them, just as some of those whom you regard are not quite as dead as you imagine them to be. Oh, and before I forget."—Here he once again delivered a blow to his former employer's gut—"Compliments on behalf of myself. I hope you burn in hell, you self-righteous son of a bitch," he muttered as he began to fade away, that contented smile resting upon his vanishing face, an epitaph to a gravestone long denied him.

Cal watched him disappear, the blood on his face drying as the wound the brick wall had inflicted healed, his cracked skull reconfiguring itself as broken bone shifted slowly back into place. He barely felt the pain. As the gravity carried behind Lovejoy's parting words held a deeper concern than the war raging inside of his head.

"I'm already burning," he answered quietly, uncertain as to whether or not Lovejoy heard him as he found himself alone in the darkening expanse of his own consciousness. He reached for another cigarette, but found himself short, his fingers encompassing the ring instead. Rose's ring. How Lovejoy had known he carried it was beyond his understanding. Not that it mattered, of course. He couldn't care less if the bastard knew or not, since half of Philadelphia society already knew, although no one ever spoke of it—not in his earshot, anyhow—since everyone pretended to feign ignorance of the matter.

Felicia had made the truth of it known after their divorce, as a spiteful means of having some of sort of childish revenge against him, since he'd ruined her name in return. She'd been all too happy to reveal that he still mourned a dead woman, whom most had forgotten as they had the war. And he allowed it, as he allowed them to talk of nothing else, just as he watched them die off, one by one, while he endured and watched their children run their good names into the ground.

_As it appears that I shall be around for their children's children_, he mused darkly to himself, and he shook his head, his blood-soaked hair stiffening in the cold night air. He was half-surprised to find that his skull no longer harbored the mind shattering headache that had tormented him only moments before. He placed a tentative hand against the crack, and felt only the smoothness that had replaced a fracture which would have surely cost him his life. He shook his head in silent wonder, and he laughed. Immortality was so, fucking, overrated. Perhaps he _would_ jump off of Liberty Bridge after all, just for the hell of it. He certainly felt up to the challenge, given his present disinclination to return home. For if anything, he found more than what he had bargained for, when coming to his old, familiar haunts.

He'd learned a powerful lesson from Lovejoy—at the expense of his own dignity, certainly. But it was a lesson nonetheless. His fingers released Rose's engagement ring, where it remained in the safe confines of his waistcoat pocket, the need for a cigarette replacing his ever-growing thirst. He would sate the former need presently; but for the moment he had much to consider, much to decide, since it would not be long until sunrise. Only a few, precious hours of his freedom remained until he had to imprison himself once again in the sanctuary his office had become. He closed his eyes, and he breathed in the city, with its thousand different odors, as he considered what Lovejoy had said out of _kindness_.

He dare not give himself any hope as to what the man had implied, since any trace of that weak, human sentiment died that day he'd locked himself in that godforsaken cabin and cried. He hadn't allowed himself to look forward to anything since, embittered by the truth of what he had ultimately lost. For out of everything he could purchase with the countless millions his forefathers, as well as himself, had accumulated, his money had failed to bring one back from the dead.

He hadn't even recovered her body, although he'd made a search for it, exhausting all of the funds his father had grudgingly given him until he finally found himself instead acquiring a tombstone for her, if only in name. He had paid for the funeral's expenses, knowing well enough that Ruth hadn't the money to pay for it, as she had clung to him in those terrible days after the sinking, silently demanding him for every penny she believed he owed her family. His distant expression darkened at the thought, that pensive scowl deepening as he opened his eyes and looked at the night's sky. _The bitch thought I hadn't done everything in my power to recover Rose, since even that bastard Astor's body had been recovered_, he thought bitterly, as he stared at the starry expanse above. He frowned at their half-clouded features, the city's illumination tarnishing their natural beauty.

He'd long ignored the fact of how beautiful they truly were, and he found himself returning a partial interest in their existence. He would even last as long as some of them, perhaps. That was, if he took care not to venture out into the sunlight. He could, perhaps, outlast even time itself, since immortality was something that his money could never afford.

It was almost comforting, in a way. Though even such could not change what Lovejoy had said, for what had he meant by some ghosts being alive? Cal thought the very notion ridiculous, and quickly disregarded it, although a part of him felt something, terribly out of joint. He needed that cigarette. And a large supply of fresh meat. He almost laughed at the thought of his cook, the man's shocked expression in tandem with his demand of having meat—cooked rare, at most—at every meal, his salvation coming in the form of an animal bred for consumption. Livestock. A second choice.

He sighed in spite of himself, understanding his choice for settling for something less a pathetic one, since that bastard Lovejoy was right in at least one thing: he could not survive solely on himself. But if he had to endure a life without sunlight and tolerate the unwanted company of ghosts, then he would not add those whose lives he claimed to that exclusive number. He could not bear their silenced accusations and condemning stares he imagined as he thought of the ghosts he'd seen at the mill, and how his father, being at the root of their pain, had remained, wholly ignorant of their presence as their families suffered from his neglect. He almost wished the bastard was there, among them. It would be a fitting punishment for one who had almost made a hell out of his own life, as well.

Thoughts of his father plagued him as he continued down the street, the stretch of dark road before him melding against the faint, inky traces of the forthcoming day. Cal looked up at the stars, as if in longing. He could already taste the dawn on the horizon, almost taste that fiery, golden brilliance that he'd never see again. His hand returned to his waistcoat pocket and he blindly grasped the ring. He would set it on his office's windowsill in the morning, just before dawn. He would leave it there as the sun would touch it for hours without injury, just as he could touch the ring in turn, the warmth of it, he trusted, still there, long after the day's demise. It was a childish action, he knew, but one he would indulge himself in this once. He had nothing better to do, nothing left to hope for. He had nothing but the ring…and Charlotte.

Charlotte.

She was surely home by now, safe in the domestic confines he provided for her, and he would be sure to keep it as such. He would remain the father she loved and admired, be the one constant in her life, just as he was for his contemporaries. The façade would remain, for as long as he could manage it. He knew he would outlive her by lifetimes; he would outlive everyone. Time meant nothing to him. And yet…

He looked down, and pulled the ring from out of his pocket. The large diamond in its center glinted brightly in the lamplight. It would be a thousand times brighter in the sunlight. He could almost imagine the brilliance the diamond would resonate, its eternal fire just as tangible and inspiring as the one who had worn it. His wistful expression fell at the consideration, the ring reluctantly returned to its rightful place. It mattered not what Lovejoy had said; Cal had already put it from his mind, as he would not conjure some foolish hope, only to find himself disappointed.

He looked forward then, that patrician's face etched in silent resolution. He would go home, and then to work. And after that…

He would continue the masquerade, his face a shadowy mask of self-imposed perfection. He would drink champagne, smoke the finest cigars, and play cards with those whom he secretly despised. In essence, he would _live_, just as he had for the last seventeen years. For if one thing was a dread certainty, Caledon Hockley was a survivor, a survivor who had outlived both love and death, and he would continue on that path until he at last decided to greet the first, fleeting rays of the dawn and accept…all that came with it.

For even then, he would be a man who made his own luck.

…

**Author's Note: Cal sees dead people, and he apparently will from now on.**

**Anyway, this concludes Chapter Three. I honestly cannot say that I am completely pleased with it; but then, this **_**is**_** merely the beginning, as I still have quite a ways to go before the end. And now, for some trivia!**

**There are several historical references and allusions in this chapter. If anyone caught the 'dark stretch of road' segment at the end and finding it sounding awfully a lot like **_**The Monkey's Paw**_**, then you're absolutely right. **

**As for the Liberty Bridge—which I'd more than love to see Cal jump off of—it is a real bridge, and was completed in 1928, so it's consistent with history. I'm trying to refrain from anachronisms, but I can't promise that I won't have one at some point. As for the more notable people mentioned in this chapter, with the exception of Albert Gainsborough, the others were real people, who lived at that time. Also, too, I cannot stress enough to take a look at the Carnegie Musical Hall. Truly, it is absolutely gorgeous. I shall also try to post a link in my author's bio for those interested in seeing it.**

**And being a **_**Phantom of the Opera **_**fan, I simply **_**had**_** to have Cal and Charlotte attend a performance of Gounod's **_**Faust**_**. As for Ms. Dawson…I wasn't for sure if I'd mention such an elusive figure or not at this point in time, but am glad that I did, ultimately. Now, Cal is having doubts, just when he wasn't even remotely thinking of Rose. XD Is she dead? Is she alive? I suppose, like Cal, we shall just have to wait and see.**

**And also, something else to note: an interpretation of **_**Faust**_**—although it contained a segment from Saint Saëns' **_**Danse Macabre**_** for the musical score—was also in the film, **_**Tombstone**_**, which featured a very charming Billy Zane. An odd coincidence, perhaps, but it's true! ^_^**

**Cal's car, more specifically, is a 1929 Rolls-Royce Phantom II, which is just an absolute gem, in my opinion, and is one of the sexiest models of its time! :) And I promise, I'll not go into any trivia regarding Billy Zane playing the Phantom, although he did look rather strapping in a purple spandex suit… **

**I also realize that the confrontation between Cal and Lovejoy may seem a little cliché, but I really wanted to see Cal get his ass kicked, and who better than Lovejoy to do the job? And besides which, putting those two together in the bad part of town, in the middle of the night, and fighting over the past was just too much of a temptation to pass up.**

**As for Lovejoy and Cal's conversation about the Heart of the Ocean, and the whole thing about Lovejoy's confronting Jack and Rose, both of these aspects were taken from the deleted scenes. Really, when I saw the theatrical version of the film, I wondered how Lovejoy got that blood on his face before the ship split apart. The deleted scene explains it, as well as to why we don't see Lovejoy with Cal after that point. He also calls Cal a bastard after Cal leaves him in the dining hall to do Cal's dirty work. He just mutters it, and then proceeds to trudge his way through the water. It's a very interesting scene.**

**Also, the part apart Cal sleezing about the darker side of Pittsburgh is a comment made by Rose in one of the deleted scenes, which is also featured on the DVD's special edition.**

**I also hope that no one finds Cal a **_**tamed**_** vampire by any means. I honestly despise the idea of turning him into one of those melodramatic, angsty teenage vampires that so often plague our contemporary society. Really, with the exception of what went down with the lifeboats, Cal has never had to kill anyone out of a need for survival, so it is going to be difficult for him, since he still has a conscience on some levels. I'm not promising that he won't kill anyone, but he is making an effort **_**not**_** to. **

**Anyway, I hope everyone enjoyed the chapter; I know this story is very slow in its exposition, but I really don't want to rush through this story like it means absolutely nothing, because it does mean **_**something**_** to me. Also, I haven't the slightest in when I shall have the next chapter up, but I already have a vague outline on where it's supposed to go. Hopefully, I shall get around to writing it soon.**

**Until next time,**

— **Kittie**


	4. Chapter Four: Compositions in the Dark

Disclaimer: I do not own _Titanic_, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to James Cameron, Paramount Pictures, Twentieth Century Fox, and their respected owners.

Summary: March 1929. He has always possessed her, the claim on her made, long before either realized the consequences derived from it. For a man like Caledon Hockley was not one to give up that which he claimed so easily—not even from beyond the grave.

His Dark Possession

Chapter Four

To say that Cal was surprised when he saw the ghostly apparition of his father haunting the mills would be a terrible understatement.

In all honesty, he hadn't expected to see the man again—other than in hell, of course—since Cal hadn't seen him after being laid to rest, a decade ago. But then, not a week since his birthday, he found himself having the displeasure of seeing his dearly-hated, departed father at the mill at the north end of town.

It was almost midday, when Cal, who secretly struggled with a headache that the morning sunlight inspired, first glimpsed a stolid black figure walking in the distance. He stared at it, briefly, before returning his attention to the foreman, who struggled to read the mill's report in the shadows that Cal _kindly_ insisted they stay in. The foreman's report of the workers and the mill's production for the upcoming quarter had vaguely registered above the searing headache and suppressed curiosity that overwhelmed his broken mind.

He allowed another moment to pass before he took the report from the foreman. The man's bewilderment of his employer's decision to look over everything himself was promptly ignored as Cal dismissed the foreman from his sight completely. The desire to feed on the man hadn't been on his mind—far from it, since the very smell of the foreman's blood was too pungent, too tainted with cigarettes and cheap whiskey—as his own had been enough to satiate his need for the morning. No, the abrupt dismissal was spurred mainly from the pain the sunlight had inflicted, all curiosity of the eerily familiar figure second to his need to withdraw into his office and seek sanctuary from behind his desk.

The north mill was not as shaded as the south one, though Cal had already taken precautions before beginning work there that morning. The window was obscured by dark curtains, the blinds behind them shut. Only a thin sliver of light at the top escaped from their suffocating shield. The small amount was not enough to burn him, yet it was it powerful enough to ensure a continued headache. His hands fell against his face, his long fingers massaging his aching temples, a few strands of his graying hair swaying against his ministrations.

He'd cut his fingernails earlier, yet found them already growing past what he found to be an appropriate length. He snorted at the feel of them, ignoring their sharp edges as he continued to massage the tense muscles that left him with an excruciating migraine. _Stupid, goddamned sunlight, always forcing me to acknowledge it_, he thought miserably, and he cast a hateful glance toward the object of his pain, before flinching at his impulsive act. He barely registered the faint shuffling of footsteps before hearing a raspy voice—once that sounded painfully recognizable, yet foreign at the same time—say his name.

"Caledon."

Cal grimaced at the cold utterance of his name in full, knowing well enough the voice and the entity to which it belonged. Damn it all to hell, could he not have a moment's peace from all of these ghosts from his past? _This is a nightmare, just a terrible, endless, fucking nightmare_.

Allowing his hands to fall to the safety of his desk, he acknowledged the shadowy figure standing on the other side of the office. "Ah, Father," he said in monotone, although a note of sarcasm was buried beneath his indifferent greeting, "what do I owe the honor?"

The elder Hockley, though heavily obscured by darkness and shadows, looked disapprovingly upon his son. Dark eyes glinted in the faint light the ceiling cast. "It would be advisable to watch that reckless tongue of yours," he reproached, his coarse tone as ragged and deteriorated as Cal suspected the man's corpse to be, which lay in silent repose in the family mausoleum. "Indeed, I am surprised by your behavior, Caledon," he continued on, that dark, graying head tilting at an odd angle, secretly unnerving Cal. "You've not done what I instructed you do, when I left the company in your hands. In fact, you've done quite the opposite."

"How I oversee the family business should make little difference to you, considering your state," Cal returned coldly. "After all, shouldn't you be with J.P. and the others, as you continue to congratulate each other on business in the afterlife?"

"I haven't had the pleasure of J.P.'s company since his own death," returned Nathan tersely. "My reasons for remaining here are entirely my own."

A visible tick edged itself into Cal's jaw. "Why are you here, then?" he asked pointedly, all pretences of familial affability gone.

It was then that Nathan Hockley, former proprietor of a great family dynasty, stepped forward, the shadows falling away from his solemn, stark face.

Cal nearly recoiled at the drawn look his father cast him, the hazy emptiness that subdued the man's dark eyes emphasizing just how much of a specter his father had truly become. He looked an absolute fright, stalking in the shadows in the formal attire he'd died in; and although Cal did not voice his thoughts aloud, he knew that Nathan discerned them nonetheless.

"I never expected that there would ever be a time when you would see me," Nathan echoed hollowly. "No one has seen me, in fact, except for those pathetic souls that died in the mills." He scowled when he spoke of them. "Oh, yes, the dead can see each other, although it is rare for the living to see such. That is why I am surprised to find that, after all this time, since I know that time has passed by the state of your appearance, that you now see me." He looked at Cal oddly, suspiciously. "You are different, somehow. Something has changed; I can feel it."

His son, however, said nothing regarding this newfound suspicion, only turned his attention to the small stack of papers on his desk. "You look like hell," Cal noted distantly, his eyes still trained on the evaluations.

Nathan shot him a cold look. "I could say the same of you."

Cal smiled, partially amused by Nathan's uncharacteristic sarcasm. "I'm learning to live with it," he returned dryly, no longer interested in the conversation. "Although I doubt I can say the same of you. Has death been treating you well, Nathan?"

He received a bark of derisive laughter for his disrespect. "What does it look like?" Nathan angrily rejoined, ill-pleased by his son's informality of his paternal title. "Goddamn it, Caledon! You haven't any idea what I've been through, since I just _had_ to have that heart attack in the middle of the night. Imagine. Sleeping, and then finding myself stuck in this perpetual abyss. It's like an unending, bureaucratic nightmare." He glowered at his son spitefully, those dark eyes filmy, lifeless, devoid of the light they once held. "You cannot imagine what I've endured, with you blissfully ignorant of my presence…until now," he added cryptically. "It's not every day that the living—one I've long given up any vestige of hope on—in seeing the dead. Did finding yourself middle-aged spur such a revelation, I wonder? Of course, I believe it was something entirely different."

The younger Hockley refused to acknowledge the remark. Instead, Cal shuffled the evaluations underneath a few others that he intended to take home for the day. He briefly glanced at his empty coffee cup, a pang of hunger instantly upsetting his carefully constructed composure. Muttering a grim oath, he turned once again to an impatiently waiting Nathan. "You were always one for brevity, so let us be blunt: what do you want of me? You certainly didn't come here to reminisce on old times."

Nathan visibly shifted, as if surprised by Cal's no-nonsense attitude, something in which he'd instilled in him through years of careful conditioning. "Very well," he said, "since you desire to get this over with. I want to know exactly what the hell has possessed you to oversee the company the way you have. In all my years of managing it, I never once made the decisions you have. You've done the exact opposite of what I would have you to do—of what I taught you to do! I don't understand this childish defiance, Caledon; but it has to stop, before you destroy this company. You know as well as I that it cannot endure the construction of another mill!"

Cal failed to flinch under Nathan's reprimand, although there was a visible tension in his drawn shoulders. He wanted to scream. To lash out. To bury the bastard. Six feet under—again. Good God, he thought he had escaped this torture a decade ago. He silently cursed his ill-found luck. As seeing the dead, although a rather lucrative business for some, was not what he would have wished upon himself—certainly not for his birthday. He looked up and regarded his father silently, those cold, black eyes never wavering in their unspoken hatred.

"I choose how to handle the company as I see fit," he answered, after a long, debilitating moment. "Since your tenure, things have changed. The needs for how to manage the company have changed. _I_ have changed." _In more ways than one_, he added silently. "As such, I don't intend to apply the old ways in managing the business." _Your ways, you adulterous bastard_. "Indeed, Hockley Steel has done far better than you or Grandfather ever believed possible. You can move on to whatever afterlife there is reassured in that knowledge."

A heavy silence fell between them before Nathan rounded on his son. "I absolutely refuse," he ground out, a shadowy mass emanating from the anger he exerted.

"That is entirely your decision," returned Cal noncommittally, taking great care not to be drawn in by the poisonous shadows that clung to Nathan like chains. The whole affair was too Dickensian for his taste, and he disregarded the matter of his father entirely. "Either way, I've work to do. If that is all you wanted to discuss, you know the way out," he said, a dismissal formed into a half-hearted attempt at a kind afterthought.

And yet, to his increasing disappointment, Nathan remained, a staid figure that reflected a generation forgotten by war and frivolity. "Work to do," he echoed hollowly, before laughing in the same, caustic manner. "Oh, yes, the pathetic, puerile, little boy I see is doing his father's work." He cast Cal a knowing look. "It's the same, pitiful, patched-up attempt you've made since you left Harvard. Honestly, I wasted my time and money on nothing but piano lessons and history classes as a means to enjoy yourself, since both of which are the only things you do well."

Cal forced himself to remain still, as he endured Nathan's tirade.

"Indeed, I could never understand what possessed you to enjoy those kinds of things," Nathan vented out through a set of half-rotten teeth. "That weak-willed hen of a mother encouraged you to pursue a life with the former, though God only knows why. As if you could do anything by playing someone else's music—a son of a family forged by the steel industry—and making such a profession remotely acceptable. The very notion was beyond preposterous!" He laughed at the possibility, a crude, broken, dissonant cacophony that made the walls groan in dismay. "It was a good thing I pulled you away from that foolish endeavor, before it truly took hold in your impressionable mind. Otherwise, you would've run this company into the ground before a year was out, mark my words."

But Nathan had already lost Cal, as thoughts of his youth turned him into a pensive statue of stone. He said nothing as the elder Hockley continued to reproach his laxity in heading the company properly. Nor did he pay the man any heed as he looked to the curtained window, and then to the clock on the wall, noting the hour. Several hours remained until sunset; and by all appearances, it looked as if his bastard of a progenitor would not be leaving any time soon.

Damn.

Compared to Nathan, his painful encounter with Lovejoy had been a picnic, almost a pleasure. He wanted to scream, to throw his coffee cup at that haggardly resilient face, the shards embedding themselves into the sallow flesh that disgusted him. But, no. If Nathan was anything like Lovejoy, and Cal very much doubted any less, then his intention would, quite literally, fall through in failure. He'd be less a coffee cup and more an irate father. No, it was best to let the man have the final word—or words, as Nathan was notorious to prattle on in these private moments between father and son—and be done with it.

After all, the same tactic had worked on Nathan since his childhood, so why would now be any different? Surely, Nathan would fail to notice his disinterest, as Cal inclined his head, agreeing with all the man said. He could do no less, certainly. _Better to play the diligent little fool…for now_, he thought, considering Nathan's recent remark of his former interest occupied the time spent in adhering to his dead father's complaints and the hours it took for the sun to set, while faint memories of his younger self sitting at a massive black piano, now rendered anew, occupied his thoughts, the haunting melody a pair of younger hands played drowning out the ghostly rasp of Nathan's decomposing voice.

…

It was just after sunset when Cal returned home to a bustling house preparing the family for dinner. From the mansion's threshold, the strong scent of oysters and caviar flooded his senses, just as an upcoming course of lamb, currently being prepared in the kitchen, overwhelmed the former.

His bland expression instantly darkened. Had it been on another occasion, he would have reveled in partaking in some of his favorite foods. However, the overall insipid scent he inhaled, combined with his less-than-pleasant farewell to Nathan earlier, left him without an appetite. Even his own blood failed to appeal to him, as thoughts of Nathan and his past occupied his mind. He vaguely registered Charlotte approaching him in the foyer, attired in a simple green evening dress.

"Daddy, you're home early! We hadn't expected you back so soon!" she exclaimed, those soft eyes brightening at the sight of him.

Fridays were always Cal's late day. He never tried to amend that fact; he, along with everyone else, had come to accept such as it was.

Charlotte, however, was genuinely pleased by the break in routine. "How was the north mill? Were the foreman's evaluations to your liking?" she enquired as she took the liberty upon herself to take his coat and hat, before carefully putting them away in a nearby closet.

Cal refused to censure her servant-like behavior, since she took a very innocent, childlike pleasure in seeing to his needs. And, as he found himself so often admitting, her coffee was also, rather surprisingly, better than that of the cook's in his employ. "It was what I expected from him, although there are a few issues regarding one of the furnaces," he said, before giving the adjoining hall a cursory glance. "Are the others here?" he asked of his other children, although he already knew the answer; their personal scents faint against the rest of the household's.

Charlotte shook her head, a look of regret clouding her fine features. "I'm afraid that Celia was detained by one of her friend's mothers. Apparently, Mr. Morgan's daughter, Anne, was in attendance there, and Celia had to stay and meet her. She is having dinner with them."

A brief silence followed, and a hint of annoyance flickered in his gaze. "J.P.'s daughter, correct?" he prompted, and Charlotte nodded. "Well, that doesn't account for my sons' absence. I am sure they were not at one of Celia's silly little companions' houses. So, where are they, or do I even _care_ to know?" He saw her visibly hesitate, and he waved his curiosity aside. "It's of little importance, either way. I'm sure that they shall be crawling back here from the brothels and gaming houses before dawn," he remarked dourly, catching Charlotte's slight look of shock at his admission. Usually, he was not so open about his opinions; though after the hell he'd endured earlier, he couldn't care less about any sensitivities his daughter might have.

Charlotte's silence was only confirmation of what he had already assumed as both eyed each other with the tacit knowledge that neither would express beyond the foyer. The servants undoubtedly knew, yet had the good sense to hold their tongues about the moral debauchery their employer's sons inspired. Marcus and Alexander failed to show the same amount of discretion that Cal and the rest of the Hockley line had naturally displayed throughout generations of public scrutiny. It had been poor judgment on his part as a father, perhaps, to keep them on, but he could do little else; he could not exchange his eldest son for another, no matter his desire for a perfect, competent heir.

He wanted nothing more than to cry out and curse at the unfairness of it all. He vaguely recalled Nathan remarking on as much, in the hours' long tirade that the man had earlier given him. Cal despised Nathan for bringing up his every fault, but was secretly relieved that the bastard hadn't followed him home. _If he ever does, I'll have him exorcised_, he thought, a little cynically; for although he barely paid Nathan's ghost any heed, he knew that his father was reluctant in moving on as Lovejoy and so many others obviously had done. The man feared something, although Cal could not, exactly, discern what.

It was Charlotte, however, who had the tact to break him out of his brooding thoughts. He caught sight of her nervous stance, her small hands cradled before her in an anxious gesture. "What is it, Charlotte?" he found himself ask, his own voice foreign to him. "What troubles you now?"

She regarded him warily. "Daddy, I…" she began, hesitating for a moment before composing herself. "Well, the truth is, I was wondering if it would be permissible if I were to invite Albert over for dinner, one night next week. I won't if you think it too improper, but he's leaving to visit his father in England soon, and this may be the only chance I shall have to see him until he returns."

Cal instinctively set his jaw at her suggestion.

Ah. So that was it. The amphibious Mr. Albert Gainsborough would be cordially invited to dinner. A simple 'I forbid it' on his part would surely put an end to any hopeful union between the young man and his daughter, and would, therefore, dissuade Charlotte from pursuing the matter further. And yet, as Cal looked at her, with those hopeful cornflower-blue eyes burning into his own, he found he could not refuse her this one request. Inclining his head with a sharp nod, he conceded to her. "Very well, invite this acquaintance of yours; have him come by next Friday at seven. I should like to meet him then."

Charlotte's guarded expression melted in the instant, her very face beaming. "Oh, thank you, Daddy! Thank you! You cannot know how much this means to me!" she exclaimed, before moving to give him a tight embrace. She kissed his cheek for good measure, her smile widening. "I shall see to everything myself; everything will be perfect, I promise you."

He cast his daughter an annoyed half-grin. Again, she was exerting a hint of her former class. "Try not to do _everything_ yourself, dear. Leave the servants to do their work, otherwise I shall have no reason to keep them employed."

"Of course, Daddy," she returned softly, dutifully.

It was then that Cal made to take his leave. He sensed Charlotte's surprise, and said, "I am going to retire to the parlor. Have Mrs. Bridgeton send for me when dinner is ready."

Charlotte moved to speak, but then nodded her head in agreement. He'd given her a subtle, yet direct, order to obey—by having another do that which she would've done without a second thought. It was a test he'd set for her, and she would be dashed if she failed it. With another daughterly nod, she left to find Mrs. Bridgeton, and convey her father's message to the middle-aged matron.

Cal watched her leave, standing in the foyer for another moment before adjourning to the parlor. He shut the door behind him when he found that he was quite alone in the solitary room. He himself rarely retreated here, preferring to spend his time in his study, or out in the more questionable parts of town. Even his children rarely frequented this room, their interests restricted mainly to diversions focused around their own time. He found many of their pursuits passively pathetic, yet rarely begrudged them, since they stayed out of his way.

Except for tonight.

Darkness overtook his silent musings as he thought of what Charlotte had said—or rather, didn't say—when concerning her brothers' whereabouts. Marcus and Alexander may have been Hockleys by virtue of their birth, but they were far from behaving as one. Once, he had even caught them trying to sneak in a couple of prostitutes onto the estate, undoubtedly intending to house them as their mistresses, since Cal refused to allow them a place at the townhouse. That had been six months ago. _And if they try to do it again tonight, by God, there will be hell to pay_, he fumed, his heated gaze fixed on the fireplace.

He glowered at it, knowing that he would not hesitate in taking both of his bastard sons in hand and throwing them among the hot coals. It would be no less than what Nathan would do to him, for such foolishness. The marks he'd received from the elder Hockley were but mere scratches, compared to what his own progeny deserved. He'd been loath to discipline them, let alone conjure up any feelings of paternal affection for them, but their obedience and respect he expected no less from both, and he would be damned if he was made a fool by their carelessness. The Hockley name would not be tarnished under his watch, no matter if he found himself an heir or two short. He could always pass the estate off to a relation who knew how to tow the line.

Grimacing at the possibility, however, Cal turned away from the fireplace, no longer in the mood in entertaining the possibility of finding a replacement for his sons' incompetence. Instead, he looked at the piano in the corner, an ominous black thing: elegant, polished, and kept preserved from sunlight and the elements. He hadn't played it in years. The children were the only ones who kept the thing in tune, although it had been several years since any of them had bothered to play. His sons and daughter had found other, far less admirable pursuits; while Charlotte, though an accomplished player herself, devoted her time to painting and dancing instead.

He discarded the memory of her playing, those delicate hands moving with an effortless grace similar to his own had been. He'd only heard her, once or twice, perhaps, play before he'd thrown himself into a mountain of paperwork for the night. He'd never heard the others play, since their lessons were conducted while he was gone.

In all actuality, he'd missed a good deal of watching them grow up. The many missed opportunities of hearing their first lessons duly compared to the rest of everything he'd missed about their childhood. Felicia had seen to most of their needs until he took them firmly in hand after her departure. Boarding school had been a blessing, though he began to question himself, if only slightly, in his decision then.

Letting out a half-hearted sigh, he looked at the piano once again before walking over to it. It was his mother's piano, an Érard grand imported from Paris. He looked at it in half-concealed wonder, its ivory keys, though yellowed by time, remained as pristine and immaculate as when his mother had first set her slender fingers upon them. Its black frame showed very little signs of wear, the pedals polished to a bronzed sheen. It had been his mother's most cherished possession—a far cry from the horrid player pianos and automatic keyboards that people of his class and below prattled on mindlessly about. _No_, he protested silently, nothing could compare to this lavish grandeur that presently stood in silence before him, for it represented an age he privately mourned, an age that represented a young boy whose aspirations had yet not been corrupted by a domineering father and years of social conditioning.

He bit back a laugh at the irony. Since Nathan, if in this alone, had been right in his crude revelation of Cal's interest in music. He had never even told Rose of what had been so callously imparted by Nathan only hours before. He hadn't told her of any secret desires he'd once harbored in his youth. Not really. Since he'd already been firmly inclined to accept his fate as the heir to Hockley Steel that he had been forced to so long ago accept.

Indeed, it was a fitting irony, and Cal smirked at the absurdity of it. And yet, as if in a mark of defiance to Nathan—who, mercifully, was not here to witness his audacity—Cal sat down on the bench, the aged wood creaking beneath his added weight. His fingers fell across the keys, almost reverently. The soundless stillness of the moment possessed him, engulfing his senses, before music, at last, flooded the room.

Cal was barely aware of the sheet music resting before him, his eyes closed as he played a piece from Chopin by memory. He thought of his mother while he played, vague, half-remembered recollections that had been suppressed by an overly indifferent and domineering father. Images of a woman with dark hair and gray eyes, her smiling face, looking at the one she loved, as a little boy, no more than five, reached out to her with a pair of trusting eyes.

They flashed through his mind like a silent picture, sepia-toned photo stills of a life he'd left on a shelf in some abandoned space that his conscience had forsaken. He opened his eyes at the comparison, the music stopping abruptly. He looked down at his hands, frowning at the keys. Perhaps seeing Nathan again had brought on such a pathetic moment of nostalgia. For after all, he rarely thought of his mother, let alone his youth, since his life led forward, always forward, and never the opposite. _And besides_, he subjectively reasoned, _it's useless to regret anything_. The past was in the past, and there was little he could do about it now.

Though if he could…to have a second chance at things…he would be half-tempted to forfeit everything he possessed.

If only…

His fingers lingered over the keys, poised precariously over that which would shatter the silent mantra of his thoughts. And he indulged in it, breaking through the threshold that Nathan had cemented in his mind. He lashed out at his progenitor through the sound his defiance inspired, the dulcet tones growing fevered, innervated, louder. He scarcely noticed Mrs. Bridgeton standing at the door, her hand hanging in mid-knock, those worried hazel eyes of hers glazed over with tangible shock.

"Mr. Hockley," she began calmly, though unable to finish what she intended to say. Instead, she looked at him, watching him as he continued to play, blatantly ignoring her. She inwardly scolded herself for interrupting him.

Twenty-three years his senior, the Maid-of-All-Work had often heard him play the piano with his mother, who taught him instead of an instructor. Mozart had been her former mistress' personal favorite, as she instructed a young Caledon to play the dead pianist's compositions, along with all of the other great composers. Though in all her years, she had never heard her employer play with such a fiery intensity. Even the late Mrs. Hockley had never played with such passion; and the woman lived for it, while her son was the epitome of all that she loved and desired.

Mrs. Bridgeton silently shook her head. For while she well remembered his interest in playing, and what a tragedy it had been that her former employer dissuaded him from pursuing it, she never believed she would hear him play again; she hadn't, for the better part of thirty-five years, but those years seemed almost as yesterday as she heard him fill this empty space with music once again. She was almost loath to put an end to that long forgotten sensation, but he had asked to be called for dinner, and she never went against his orders, even when he ignored her.

"Mr. Hockley," she said again, this time less disinclined to hesitate. "Dinner is being served, sir." She caught his gaze, the music ending on a final, sharp note.

A stilted moment passed between them before he spoke. "I shall be there in a moment, Mrs. Bridgeton." He saw her comply with an obedient nod, before adding, "And have a bottle of my best burgundy served; I believe the '92 vintage will do for tonight." Again, he saw her nod as she made to leave, quietly shutting the door behind her.

He dimly registered her hurried departure, his attention returning to the instrument before him. He considered it with vague detachment, its ivory keys countering his silent gaze, a dark thought forming within his half-subdued mind. He looked up from the piano, the thought evolving into a web of profound disenchantment. He stood then, abandoning the piano as his present desire became fixed upon that glass of red wine which called to him, more than what any half-construed vision of a wrathful father beating his wayward son did—albeit he would greatly enjoy both, perhaps equally—when the time came.

He cast a quick glance at the fireplace, and smiled at its welcoming inferno—before compelling himself to indulge in the loving company of the only one who gave a damn about whether or not he ate.

…

It was well past three before he heard the main door open, the soft stirrings of a throng of hushed, staggering footsteps duly following suit. Cal had the decency not to roll his eyes; he had expected no less from his sons and their nightly wanderings, after all.

He glanced at the clock on the parlor wall, and methodically shook his head. He had expected them to be much later than this, since the hour was rather early, even for them. They usually arrived, right before dawn, and slept until their inebriated state left them a good deal happier and a few brain cells short.

Cal forced himself not to grimace at their stupidity; for unlike the despots he was forced to acknowledge as his sons and heirs, Charlotte and Celia, fortunately, had the good sense to drink wine and champagne, consuming only that which was expected of them and no more. Neither had experienced the aftereffects in imbibing in too much, and he would be damned if he ever saw them in the same state that his sons currently indulged themselves in.

He'd barely said two words to Celia when she arrived home, which, unsurprisingly, had been at a decent hour. The girl had given him a prompt account of her newly-forged association with Anne Morgan, as well as her interaction with others in attendance. Cal could not have been any less interested, since he found the veritable Ms. Anne Morgan to be a vapid, mindless twit, hell-bent on making a name for herself during—and if not well after—the War.

The woman, as Cal had the displeasure in personally knowing, was a social parasite, who carefully concealed her true visage behind a philanthropist's mask of benevolence and virtue. It galled him to even think of her and her kind, especially after Celia had undoubtedly been exposed to that idealized feminist's regime.

What a mercy that he could, at the very least, keep one of his children at home, as dinner with Charlotte had, strangely, been the highlight of his day. He had even managed to hold down everything he'd consumed, although he wished he could have slipped some of his blood into the burgundy; the taste had been bitter otherwise. The lamb had only the faintest traces of blood within its rare flesh, but it had been enough to sustain him until he returned to the parlor, with the bottle of burgundy in hand. He'd probably drained himself of half a pint of blood, before mixing it with the wine, and making it the slightest bit tolerable to drink.

He cast the bottle a passing glance. Over three-quarters consumed, and he felt not the slightest impression of being intoxicated. He found it so unfair, preferring to be absolutely beyond drunk at the moment. Perhaps then, he would better handle his present dilemma as he heard a female voice intermingling amongst his sons'. Shit. One of them had brought a prostitute home, after all. How fucking wonderful. His inevitable confrontation with them had just gotten even more interesting. He again lamented the fact of his being sober; he would surely handle this better drunk. He instantly feared that he would never be so again. _All because of that pale-faced slip of a whore_, he raged silently, his predatory gaze cutting through the darkness and catching sight of three silhouetted figures whose voices droned on, past the darker part of his perception.

Turning out the light, he slipped through the shadows, darkening himself to perfect, peerless obsidian. He wasn't hindered by it, however; he could see as well as he did in daylight—perhaps even better—since his eyes seemed to gleam beyond the fevered pitch blackness he and the night created, cutting through the darkness which threatened to quench them of their preternatural light forever. He almost grinned. Almost. He would never forgive that slut for imparting this curse upon him, but at least he no longer had need for his spectacles anymore. _That_ had to account for at least _something_. There was that, and the unexpected ability to hear everything his sons were presently saying, their muffled whispers perfectly coherent to him, the approaching silhouettes a minor grayness to him.

Cal nearly revealed himself to them then, but decided to remain in the shadows, wondering how he could have raised such mindless, wasteful, shameless sons.

He scowled at their haughty expressions, at their arrogant behavior. They thought so highly of themselves, believing him completely oblivious to their arrival. The fools! He began to wonder _why_ he ever considered them worthy enough to attend his old _alma_ _mater_, not that he had ever had much faith in their capabilities, of course. He was half-tempted to withdraw Alexander, and bar Marcus from attending when his time came. Alexander hadn't even been there a full year, and the boy already proven himself to be an utter disappointment. _As both are right now to me_, he considered darkly.

"Are you sure about this?" asked an uncertain Marcus from behind, a lock of auburn hair falling messily across his pale forehead. "I mean, Father clearly said—"

"I know what Father said," Alexander returned in a huff, before flicking a nearby switch, his scowl illuminated by the electric chandelier above them. "But what he doesn't know won't hurt him. And besides, it doesn't matter, anyhow, since he's probably so foxed that he could barely tell the difference in whether I bring someone home with me or not."

Marcus cast his brother an uncertain look.

It was then Cal made his move, emerging from the shadows and making his presence known.

Alexander gasped, startled, while Marcus' ashen face registered palpable shock.

"F-Father!" both cried out, while the woman who languidly held onto Alexander's arm looked to the floor in apparent shame.

Cal almost smirked. Good. At least one of them had enough sense to acknowledge his authority. _Shame that my sons could not do the same; they could learn a lot from this whore_, he thought, and then considered them, measuring their emotions. For there they stood, stock still, shocked beyond viable recognition. He suppressed his amusement, those dark, discerning eyes falling upon the girl between them.

She was surely no more than sixteen, dark-headed, with a hint of innocence underneath the taint of her profession. Undoubtedly, she had been compelled by someone to seek out such a profession, her income surely going to more than simply herself alone. It was the same story with many young women—and men, since there were those whose tastes ran toward a more masculine connotation of intimacy—who found themselves in that unfortunate position. Social rejection and religious intolerance did nothing to quell the upsurge of prostitution, either, considering how many who proclaimed themselves to be of God and of the holy church indulged in the same, lurid acts as the common sinner. Cal was not a very religious man himself, but he inwardly baulked at the church's shameless hypocrisy. As hypocrites, he had so often found, were no better than the common rabble that made their living by exhibiting the lost virtue of young girls, like the one before him.

With such in mind, Cal looked at her, and inclined his head in a gesture for her to leave, which she happily did, as she untangled herself from Alexander, and left without another word. It was the one kindness he would afford her. How she managed her own way home would be of her own devising, since he refused her a ride into town. Surely, Alexander had already paid her for her extended services; otherwise a trip into the country would have been a waste on both of their parts, not to mention her income for the night. Not that Cal cared about either her or his son's happiness or welfare, of course. It wasn't his business what a common whore's diversions were, although those of his sons'…were a completely different matter entirely.

And he expressed as much, when he found himself completely alone in their confidence. He sneered at their newly contrite visages, although his eldest's held a note of disdain. Cal would gladly remedy that soon enough. After all, he couldn't have his children thinking ill of him before he sent them to bed, now could he?

"I see that both of you have stayed out longer than what many consider a decent hour," he said evenly, lest the servants hear him, his businessman's façade revealing nothing. He gave them a cold, studious stare before continuing. "Indeed, I'd have expected not to see you until tomorrow, since you do rather enjoy making a fool of your father."

Marcus had the grace to flush. "We would never make a fool of you, Father," he answered, a half-spoken plea to divert Cal's inevitable anger.

But Cal ignored him. "Then why in God's name did you bring a whore into my house?" he practically roared, no longer caring if anyone heard him. "I believe I recall the last time we had this discussion."

"She's not a whore, _Father_," Alexander broke in, his defiant gray eyes betraying his otherwise penitent expression. "I've known Minuette for over a year now, and she's not—"

A resounding slap silenced him completely.

Cal glowered at him darkly, his hand remaining sharply poised in midair. He barely noticed the sting in his hand. "Never lie to me," he seethed underneath that cool, oily tone, a viable threat. He watched the fear arise in his eldest son's face, although it did nothing to quell his anger. "I know too goddamn well that you've not known that girl before tonight, just as you didn't know anything about the last one you tried to establish here." He cast him a knowing sneer, his hand falling resolutely to his side. "If you want a mistress, you had better have the funds and knowledge of how to handle one. They'll bleed you dry in less than a year, and you won't be running home to your _foxed_ _father_ for more money to appease a flippant, mindless slut, who can never be more than one second to wife."

The handprint on Alexander's cheek darkened against his pallid features. So, the bastard had heard him, after all. He instantly regretted the thought when Cal looked at him, an even darker glower deepening against that lined face.

The head of the Hockley family turned toward his youngest son. "Marcus, you may go to bed," he said, before again turning toward Alexander, dismissing him completely.

Marcus dutifully inclined his head, knowing better than to go against his father, as the sight of the man's eyes, and what lay within them, would forever haunt him. He almost pitied his brother, for he could offer him no comfort. Nor could he save Alexander from his father's wrath. He could only pray that his brother was alive and intact come tomorrow, since he rather feared that the look in his father's eyes—dear God, those eyes!—would happily end his brother's life.

Alexander turned, watching as Marcus left, the latter returning a silent look of sympathy before disappearing upstairs. The eldest Hockley son inwardly bristled. So, he would have no ally in this battle, after all. He almost smiled. It wasn't as if he expected to have one anyway; it wasn't as if he would've known that his father was awake and, by all appearances, perfectly sober, either. He instinctively squared his shoulders, preparing himself, although he had yet to look into his father's eyes.

Of course, Cal had yet to grant Alexander that luxury. For now, he kept his eyes trained on the boy's back, noting the cropped, dark-red hair that was reminiscent of one he wouldn't allow himself to think of at present. The gray eyes his son had inherited came from Felicia's side, although it could be argued they could've come from his own mother, as well. Cal refused to consider the possibility, let alone debate it; he had other, more pressing matters that required his attention—namely, his eldest son's defiance.

He'd let Marcus go, on the grounds of being obediently simpleminded. Marcus was also a second son, and thus did not carry the same burden as Alexander inevitably did. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, turning away from his present study. Perhaps he should've disciplined Alexander as Nathan had done him, although he would, perhaps, _better_ the instruction. _At least I wouldn't leave scars_, he mordantly thought, as he then turned to face Alexander.

Cal looked into his son's eyes and only saw his ex-wife. There was nothing of him in the boy. Nothing. And yet, if only a moment ago, he could've sworn that he heard what the boy was thinking. Alexander had thought him a bastard. He almost laughed. Well, it was an apt description; he'd been called one before. _Although unimaginable was attached to it_.

The thought struck him ironically, and he found a fleck of humor in it now. For if he was an unimaginable bastard, then he should damn well live up to that expectation.

"Your behavior tonight was completely unacceptable," he began, attempting to reign in only a portion of his anger. "You act as if your reputation, as well as the family's, means nothing to you."

Alexander visibly flinched under his father's reprimand, yet remained firm and unyielding in the midst of it. "I've done nothing more than what my fellows at school have done," he answered sedately. "I've not shamed the family. Nor do I have any debts attached to my name."

Cal snorted derisively. "And that's simply because I see to it that you don't," he rejoined scornfully. "You'd ruin the family name and business otherwise."

A moment of silence passed between father and son, for Cal was right, and Alexander, unfortunately, had nothing to say. He couldn't contradict the truth. Nor could he reassure his father that he would be as adamant and strong-minded in heading a company as Cal expected of him. His father rarely enjoyed himself, always placing business before pleasure, and Alexander refused to become a facsimile of the aging failure before him.

"You could always choose me as your successor now," he suggested, but then regretted it, the cold gleam in his father's eyes issuing more than disapproval.

"Poor choice of words there, Son," he bit out, his fangs showing a fraction. He forced himself to retract them before his wayward issue saw them. He recovered himself, the darkness that suited him so well engulfing the final remnants of chandelier light that bounced off of his shoulders. "Poor choice indeed, since you know that the eldest inherits everything after his father's untimely demise. It would be unwise to give you charge over the company beforehand, since it suggests a discrepancy on your part, as well as mine."

Alexander arched a brow. "And why should that matter?"

Cal cast him a condescending look. "Because, you fool, I refuse to leave everything to one who will destroy a great family legacy, especially by the fault of my choosing a miserable, ungrateful, little brat to head it before he is fully ready," he remarked, his brusque manner doing nothing to abate the growing hostility between them. "Is that in any way unclear?"

"I'm not miserable, nor am I an ungrateful, little brat!" shouted Alexander. "And nothing short of my death before yours would keep me from taking over, anyhow. I do plan to outlive _you_, after all."

"Accidents happen," Cal broke in suddenly. "Unspeakable ones, in fact. I've seen both young and old men alike befall one terrible tragedy after another; and very few of those were ever ready to leave this life without some sort of contingency plan. After all, you can never foresee what wrench fate will throw in your midst. Death is not biased in those whom he chooses to accompany him, Alexander, even you, when you least expect his coming. He takes patriarchs, along with firstborn sons," he furthered, those cold, black eyes burning into wavering gray. _You can always be replaced,_ they seemed to say.

And Alexander, for the first time, _knew_ he had a reason to fear his father.

The seventeen-year-old visibly trembled; petrified by the acrid resilience the man that was his sire cast. For this was no washed-out drunkard standing before him; this was a man who could well outlive everyone, including him, as the great stone edifices on Wall Street and Capel Court crumbled to dust, the world's currency fragmenting into nothing more than shards of faded, blank paper. Caledon Hockley was an Ozymandias of his time, a broken statue of a man who outlived his own generation by staying afloat amid the frigid waters of self-disillusionment.

For after all, he had successfully slipped through the calloused fingers of death more than once. It was a story that was now more common knowledge than anything, since Alexander and the rest of his siblings had heard of their father's survival of the _Titanic _before. The man, simply and utterly, _refused_ to die. No matter. If Alexander lived through the night, he wouldn't care for his possible tenure as head of Hockley Steel; his father could have it for the better side of eternity, for all he cared.

He even confessed as much, hoping to appease Cal in whatever way he possibly could.

Cal merely laughed at him. "I just may do that," he returned drolly, although his attempt at humor greatly disturbed his son. For in spite of Cal's momentary amusement, he remained as cold and as forbidding as before. His dour expression never faltered. "After all," he continued, "eternity is so often overrated. My living into the next century might just prove beneficial to this family, as it will _you_."

And he left it at that.

Alexander was free to go, although the look in his father's eyes, albeit tinged within something dark and impenetrable, somehow told him that the words Cal had spoken were, strangely, true. It troubled him deeply—so much so that he would barely sleep the rest of the night and morning through.

Cal watched his son leave; the boy's hurried footsteps bringing nothing to him but grim satisfaction. He clenched his fist. It had taken everything within his power not to sink his fangs into his son's impertinent throat. He was certain Alexander's blood would've tasted bitter, and he probably would've regretted killing his eldest by morning. However, he wasn't sorry for striking his son. The boy deserved it—had long had it coming, even. He was only sorry not to have disciplined him sooner. _Of course, Felicia, and then the staff, saw to their upbringing_. I _merely provided them with an existence and bank account_. And look where that had gotten him. He grimaced at the implication.

He was getting no younger, although he wasn't plunging madly ahead into his dotage, either. He felt caught in his own personal purgatory. _Of course, there is no greater sorrow than to recall happiness in times of misery. Thank you, Mr. Alighieri, for that marvelous insight_, he mused sarcastically, thinking of the poet and the beautiful lines of heresy that the Italian had so boldly penned. But then, wasn't he damned himself? Cal idly wondered, mulling over his newfound fate.

It seemed as if he was learning something new about his affliction with each day. _First, my timely ability to outrun the fastest sprinter, and now reading other people's thoughts. I could very well set myself up as one of those pathetic palm readers—at ten cents a palm. Imagine the wealth I'd accumulate then,_ he considered dryly, no longer impressed by the ability. In a way, he was almost afraid of it, knowing that more would surely come from the hell he'd been forced to endure, and he feared it.

But reading minds _did_ have its advantages. At least he would know the intentions of prospective business partners, when his own business expertise failed. Delving into the unknowing minds of those who sought to swindle him had to account for something. _Although it's not enough to repel this damned, endless thirst_. A stab of regret for this eternal masquerade surged through his consciousness. He ignored it, in spite of his own, jaded tragedy. For what else could he do, than to greet the sun, and burn to ashes?

He wasn't prepared for such a dramatic ending to his otherwise mundane life. Nor was he _that_ desperate. He still had a few things that required his continued tenure before taking the gentlemen's way out. Perhaps he would even live another century, simply to spite his eldest son. Blood or not, he wouldn't allow a brood of selfish, mindless children make a fool of him.

Brooding darkly upon this thought, he returned to the parlor, sitting himself once again at the piano. He mechanically took the empty wineglass sitting on a side table in hand, drowning its blood-red contents before filling it again. He looked at the glass, unfazed. He muttered an oath. By all appearances, he would have to drain half the cellar before he felt the blessed effects of being absolutely drunk. He longed for the feel, secretly begged for it, even. He wanted the absolution he always sought at the bottom of the bottle, yet never truly found. It had been a game. A long, endless, tiring game of cat and mouse, and he missed it.

Setting the empty bottle aside, he finished the remaining blood-wine in his glass before his hands returned to the piano. He then caught sight of his fingernails, and he shook his head. They had grown even longer since his last perusal of them. _This affliction is an absolute curse_. He wanted to scream, to reveal to the world of his hardship, yet refrained. What good would expressing his anger through such childish means do if it left him without a voice? He almost retreated from the room in silent defeat. But then, staring abjectly at the piano was enough to set such infernal, dramatic acts of desperation aside.

Thinking of his mother, and the love she'd once bestowed on him, he pulled a yellowed, faded composition from a nearby stack, setting it before him. He gave the notes a cursory glance before his fingers found the appropriate keys, the harmonic notes of the _Lacrymosa _from Mozart's _Requiem_ filled the room with both sorrow and reverence. The notes struck a harmonious dissonance, a final farewell to a woman who had gifted him with a long forgotten love for music, and could only now receive a resounding show of his gratitude, composed in the dark sanctuary of his thoughts.

He finished the composition on a solemn note, closing those dusky eyes as he thought of her, and smiled at a spurned Nathan. The man would disapprove his behavior, certainly. Not that Cal minded, since he chose another piece from the stack, and began to play—in utter defiance of the bastard who had once barred him from such a wasteful and useless diversion. He smirked at the absurdity of this late show of rebellion. But, damn it all, it felt good. So good, in fact, that he was certain he woke half the house, his deafening fervor coming to a brilliant, strident crescendo.

He played like the madman that he so inherently kept in check, coldly striking the delicate instrument's keys until dawn. He played for his dead shell of a loving mother, for all that he had lost, and all that he would never have again. He played until there was nothing left, his passions ebbing away with the first, blinding strands of daylight.

He looked down at his hands, tired and drawn and doubtlessly withered from years of confined, forced imprisonment. He frowned at them, before his gaze turned to the empty wineglass. He took it up in his hand without a thought, observing the faint traces of wine and blood and bitterness. He sighed in spite of himself. He had the day off, yet he found no satisfaction in the fact, only a hollow feeling of relief, mixed with dread. He would have to accept his paternal obligation in dealing with his children today, just as Nathan had once done for him. He reluctantly recalled the confrontation they'd had over making a claim for the Heart of the Ocean, and the terrible aftermath which followed. What he would do to his sons would be less vicious, if not far from the vindictive nature that had possessed Nathan by turns, yet no less vital to their need for growing up and taking responsibility. He should've damn well done this long before now. He scowled at his obvious oversight. The very notion left him feeling a fraction of resentment.

He had no wish to see them.

Ever.

_But then, I shall not see them until tonight, since they will undoubtedly have the good sense not to trouble me, particularly my worthless sons. Until then…_

Cal smirked at the thought of drinking blood mixed with wine, with sons who now feared for their very lives, and them knowing none the better as to what their father imbibed in.

He laughed at the wineglass that he held in his hand, the fragile crystal slightly cracking underneath the pressure of his fingertips.

…

**Author's Notes:** **First off, I am so sorry for taking this long to update. I've just been so busy with college and everything else that I just haven't gotten around to working on this story until recently. I also managed to get a used copy of the film's illustrated screenplay, and it has certainly inspired me with all of the notes and photographs that I'd never before seen until now. **

**There's not a lot in the way of trivia that isn't already explained in this chapter, I don't think. I looked up piano companies, and settled on a piano produced from ****Sébastien Érard's company. I wasn't too particularly fond of the other piano styles I saw; the Érard style struck me as both elegant and fitting, though. I also had to mention Dante, since I love that man and his prose! Shelley's **_**Ozymandias **_**came completely out of nowhere, but it seemed to fit Cal all the same. As for Mozart, I never realized that Evanescence's song of the same title was a semi-updated version of Mozart's original composition. It was just odd discovering that, when writing this.**

**The 'bureaucratic nightmare' bit that Nathan says comes from the concept of the afterlife in **_**Beetlejuice**_**, and how much of a nightmare all of the red tape and paperwork death has attached to it. Tabby J. Skylark's **_**Titanic**_** story, **_**Unfinished **__**Business**_**, really emphasizes that idea. But the afterlife in **_**Beetlejuice**_** has nothing to do with the afterlife in this story. For myself, I just like seeing Nathan wander around aimlessly in the mills—very much like a Jacob Marley without a heart would do. It would be interesting, however, if he did talk business with J.P. Morgan, John D. Rockefeller, and the others in the afterlife, though. Hey, it's the industrial side of the afterlife, where all of the robber barons are destined to go! XD**

**The 'better the instruction' phrase that Cal uses in regards to disciplining his children comes from **_**The Merchant of Venice**_**, during Shylock's discourse of 'Hath not a Jew eyes?' I guess working for months on a paper focused primarily on Shylock's character came through in this chapter. But I do rather like Shylock; hence, the allusion to him! :) **

**Anyway, I hope that everyone enjoyed the chapter. I know that nothing really happened in the way of having an explosive surprise. Nathan's appearance has been in the works for quite a while now. I wanted Cal to express surprise, perhaps even shock, but his disinterest in the situation of seeing Nathan again made that a little difficult, so I left it the way it was. I also wanted to introduce some of Cal's other children, since Charlotte has already been fleshed out quite a bit. The exchange between Cal and Alexander went a completely different direction than what I had originally intended, but I am happy with the outcome. Cal's no longer taking people's crap, particularly from his children! XD His relationship with Nathan, on the other hand, we'll see how that turns out.**

**Lilly, to answer your question, since I was unable to PM you, our vampire may cross paths with our Rose soon enough! Thanks so much for reading and reviewing!**

**And I can only thank ApollonariaBoleyn1's YouTube video of Cal. Shinedown's 'Sound of Madness' is an absolutely perfect song choice, and it greatly inspired the last half of this chapter. I kept watching it over and over! :D**

**But again, I wish to thank everyone who is reading and reviewing this story. Your comments and messages do inspire me to continue writing. Thanks so much!**

**June 15th 2011:**** Just a quick note. I've revised this chapter. Hopefully, I've caught all of the errors this time. I've also added some dialogue and descriptions here and there—nothing too major, by any means. Also, from this point on, I am going to kindly ask that if anyone likes my story enough to favorite it, please review or send me a message telling me what you thought of it. A lot of fellow writers on this site are having the same issue with people just favoriting and not saying anything, and it's just disheartening to us and the stories we work so very hard on. Any input would be greatly appreciated, and it only takes a moment to leave a comment. Thanks.**


	5. Chapter Five: The Devil's Poison

Disclaimer: I do not own _Titanic_, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to James Cameron, Paramount Pictures, Twentieth Century Fox, and their respected owners.

Summary: March 1929. He has always possessed her, the claim on her made, long before either realized the consequences derived from it. For a man like Caledon Hockley was not one to give up that which he claimed so easily—not even from beyond the grave.

His Dark Possession

Chapter Five

"And that, sons, is how you complete an evaluation on the mill's open-hearth furnaces. Are there any questions?" Cal queried, a dark eyebrow arched highly in obvious disappointment, his sons' blank stares confirming his answer. Perfect. Just perfect. He'd expected no less from either of them, and yet he was no less disappointed in both.

They'd not been a week in his instructing them about the company, and he'd clearly overwhelmed them already. _Why I am even putting myself through this hell is beyond reason_, he thought as he looked upon one of the great furnaces that converted crude iron ore into molten steel. Why indeed. After all, he hadn't been exaggerating when he expressed a desire to take the company into the next century. Although the reality in and of itself had a very bleak outlook, and Cal acknowledged that he had no desire in accomplishing such. Naturally, he wanted to pass the torch, as it were, on to the next generation, even if the company fared poorly under Alexander's tenure.

Marcus, on the other hand, had shown more interest in the mill and its inner workings, inwardly surprising Cal. Granted the fact that the boy hadn't the tact, or the head for it, but the genuine interest in seeing that everything ran both smoothly and efficiently counted for at least something. Even Cal had to—if in the innermost sanctum of his thoughts—admit that of his youngest son. Of course, he would never outwardly confess as much, but the grudging admiration he had for the boy's capability was there. And that, perhaps, was all that mattered ultimately.

_But then, that's not even enough to please someone like Nathan_, he considered jadedly, thinking of the shadow of a man who haunted his thoughts.

It hadn't surprised Cal in the least that Nathan Hockley would come to haunt him at the southern mill, as well. Now that the bastard knew Cal could see him, Nathan would never relent in seeking him out. It had been a veritable pain in the ass, to be sure, having to deal with Nathan over the span of a week already. Having his sons there, and teaching them about the family business had not helped matters, since they complained about waking up before dawn, and staying strictly to the shadows while Cal instructed them.

Even now, he could compare their childish bickering to that of the irritable ghost who presently toured the mill with them.

"_I never taught you to manage an evaluation like that, Caledon. You're going about it the wrong way," _cut in a very displeased Nathan, who observed his grandsons with a disapproving eye. _"I cannot even understand _why_ you're bothering in teaching them about the company, anyhow; you should have done it long before this_."

Cal suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. It wasn't even half past eight yet, and already he had a pounding headache, although he wondered how much of it was caused by Nathan's nagging him about every single thing he said or did. He almost thanked his mother's Presbyterian view of providence that Nathan didn't reproach him on how he stood, his back straightened by years of careful conditioning.

He couldn't answer Nathan's retort, of course, since his sons would surely wonder why their father was talking to the nothingness beside of him. No. It would simply not do, since they were already questioning why he chose to bring them here before first light, and leave every evening long after dark. Having them question his sanity would only complicate matters; he could ill afford them talking behind his back to their fellows about their 'dear old dad' being a bit 'touched in the head' after his 'little incident in the streets.' He'd already suffered enough from that little happenstance to last him a lifetime.

His silently corrected himself. From all accounts, it would probably be several lifetimes, since he still received faux looks of sympathy from those of his acquaintance, who carefully masked a most morbid curiosity of his misfortune. He silently wished that he could damn them all to the lowest level of hell, because the thought of hearing them scream as they writhed in pain for their multitude of earthly transgressions made him absurdly happy.

But then, he quietly reasoned, he shouldn't have expected any less from them, since people—even of his own class—found a sick fascination in the macabre. Some of those of his association, in their drunken states, would even confess as to having attended a show at the Grand Guignol, or some less-than-pleasant place—like the freak shows featured at that dreadful hellhole Coney Island—where they indulged in their most perverse fantasies with the sick and grotesque. Cal had heard enough from the Philadelphia social set over the years to learn that those of his class tried very little to hide their pursuits. Over a game of cards, they were willing to bear their souls to any with an eager ear. He inwardly sighed. It had perhaps been a mercy that Rose had not lived to see the devolution of their much depraved contacts, since he himself found their company unbearable.

He would oftentimes receive the occasional invitation to attend one of their little gatherings, yet always found some last-minute emergency to sustain him at the mills. It had worked more often than not, and no one really ever questioned his absence, since there were other, more colorful pricks to paint themselves as fools anyhow. He hadn't the time for their nonsense.

He again corrected himself. Actually, he did, but his patience far exceeded his extended lifespan, and the former, more often than not, won out ultimately. _Just as my patience is wearing thin with this chattering idiot beside of me. God, when will this day come to an end_? He looked to the mill's clock, where the workers checked in, cursing the hour. Another ten hours in this self-made emporium of hell, at the very least. _And then, I shall have to contend with Charlotte's prospective suitor. Can my day get any better than this_? he mused darkly, thinking of the prospect of a future son-in-law like Albert Gainsborough.

The very idea left him bitter, since he wasn't too inclined to give Charlotte away to anyone, particularly not to a man of his choosing. George Arthur Gainsborough's youngest son would have to impress him greatly before he would ever consider such a match, and he highly doubted the young man would accomplish such a feat, since none had before him. But Charlotte seemed to _like_ the fellow, the other half of his mind argued, and the girl wasn't that bad in being a fairly good judge of character. _She distrusts her former stepmother, at any rate_. He closed his eyes, ignoring Nathan's prattling on about his inattention. He would not think of Felicia. Not now. Since thinking of her…always left him in a foul mood. He'd need another round of coffee before the hour was out. He stifled a groan. He'd send his sons to the other end of the mill with one of his foremen, while he retreated to his office, and sustained what little sanity he had in that small, white, blood-filled cup of dark-brown absolution.

Until then, however, he would endure, as he always did.

As such, he returned to teaching his sons about the other parts of the mill, the minutes ticking mindlessly away, while Nathan criticized every word he uttered. Cal cast his dead father a knowing, half-smile as he purposely failed to acknowledge the man, with his grim-faced, decomposing expression, for the rest of the day.

…

Night had already fallen by the time Cal and his sons reached the mansion, the twelve hours spent in assessing evaluations and learning how to approach the new furnaces and old Bessemer converters safely were well-worn upon both the Hockley heirs' exhausted features. A thin sheen of sweat, dried and secreted by turns, cloaked their handsome faces, their once-pressed linen shirts wrinkled and sooty by the foreign concept known as their father's work.

Cal, naturally, fared no better, although his thoughtful look exuded an air of confidence—something in which his sons had yet to acquire—among the wrinkles and smudges of his otherwise refined attire. And they would. He would be sure of it, well before the year was out. For now, though, they had only a rudimentary knowledge of what he did each day; however, by the time he was finished with their education, Marcus and Alexander would be as capable and as competent in handling the company's business affairs as he.

Or so he would have himself to believe.

They had a long way to go before they could ever take his place. Alexander would have to prove himself his father's son before Cal would even consider leaving the company to him, whereas Marcus would be a possible second choice, should he prove himself to be more efficient than his elder brother. Cal doubted that either would have the same prowess as their forefathers, but he was willing to suspend any momentary disbelief in their present inability. Signing everything over to a distant relation was a last resort, certainly, even though he had often entertained the idea. _But if they ever push me as they did last week…_

He knew the outcome would be in his cousin, Horace's, favor. And Cal despised his boar of a cousin. He genuinely hoped it would not come to the latter, no matter his predilection in upsetting three generations' worth of prestige with such a choice. For when he looked in a mirror and saw the gaping nothingness reflecting back, he still knew he would forever be in the coinage of his bastard of a father, and all who came before him, a carbon copy doomed to repeat the same tactics and clever manipulations for another generation to assume after him. There had been no escape from this privileged fate from when he drew his first breath. _As there certainly isn't one since my last_, he mused resentfully. No matter. His problems with the whole fucking world and all the people in it were of little importance, anyhow. Only the present mattered, he resolved, since he refused to look into a century ahead of time. _For if I could have this one moment forever_.

But then, he would have traded it for another—one less bleak and tarnished, though certainly much more fictitious and grander by any stretch of his tattered imagination. He thought of that one moment he would choose, when he saw a flash of red and a turbulent sea of dark-blue acknowledge him from across a crowded room of forlorn faces—half of which were now dead and buried—as those eyes of fire and ice locked with his for the first time. Yes, that would be the one moment he wanted, the one he would trade immortality and this day for.

But he couldn't have it.

He would never have something so goddamned wonderful and profound as that again. He closed his eyes; half-aware of the concerned look his youngest son cast him, but he disregarded it. He would only have the present. It was the best he could ever hope for. The best he would ever have, since it always seemed that he always had to settle for second-best in everything.

He said nothing to absolve Marcus' concern, as a deathly silence had befallen both father and son on the ride home, the day's events thoroughly pressing on the minds of each. He hadn't probed into either of his sons' minds, and he had no wish to now. His only concern was to go home and lock himself away from everyone who saw him.

And, naturally, he got his wish, his driver finally coming to an inevitable stop, the door opening for him and his sons. Alexander and Marcus unceremoniously stepped out before him, quietly muttering to each other about how tired they were, as both opted to retire to their rooms before dinner. Cal clearly heard their muffled complaints, but paid them no mind, since he, himself—after the day he had—silently shared their sentiments. Nathan was becoming a nuisance. Once a minor irritation, the man's poisonous presence had festered into an open, gangrenous wound that Cal wanted nothing more than to amputate and burn.

_But then, the bastard had the audacity to disappear in mid-tirade when we went to the older part of the mill. _He almost paused in mid-step, the thought striking him odd. He hadn't noticed it earlier; and yet, as he now considered it, Nathan's sudden disappearance made him question just, exactly, why the man left so abruptly. _Since the only thing there were the older furnaces and some of the workers who saw to their upkeep—nothing out of the ordinary, except for the few ghosts who worked around those oblivious to their presence_. That surely shouldn't have given Nathan cause to leave, but now Cal wasn't so sure.

It was of little importance, since all thought of Nathan left his mind when he passed through the threshold of his refuge away from work and all the noise of town.He barely registered handing his coat and hat over to a maid before Mrs. Bridgeton greeted him with the day's mail. And, as was their new routine, he told her to come for him in the parlor when dinner was ready before quietly dismissing her. Without another word, he retreated to his newfound sanctuary, standing by the piano with the small stack of mail in hand.

Cal gave each letter a cursory glance, his eyes alighting upon one written in the unmistakable hand of John D. Rockefeller himself. He frowned at it, setting the others down, his attention fixed upon the crisp script of one more ancient than he. He hesitated for a brief moment, as if almost reluctant to open it. For why on earth would Rockefeller—a man he hadn't seen for the better part of ten years—write him now? The man had retired from the steel industry decades ago. Any interest in conjuring up fond memories of the past was unlikely. He held the letter close, his fingers pressing methodically against its ivory enclosure, since he could well imagine—if through his mind's eye—the words penned within.

_Dear Caledon_,

_I heard_ _of your misfortune from my grandson. _

Cal almost cursed aloud. Of course he had. Who hadn't heard?

_Hope you're feeling better…after everything._

_Sure, he hoped_, thought Cal mordantly. It was, after all, the polite thing to _say_ in circumstances such as his.

_I'll be in town next week, and would hope to see you, if you feel inclined._

Which meant that Cal would be forced into taking a night—precious time of his own—to spare his father's contemporary from insult. Great. Just fucking perfect. It wasn't as if he had anything better to do, anyhow. Why not entertain another empty head with his paltry story of how he nearly succumbed to an unfortunate and most embarrassing end? After all, hadn't everyone from New York to Atlanta heard about it already? It was almost humiliating to go through such a painful experience again; but, as was expected of him, he would send a telegram to Rockefeller accepting his invitation.

He then set the letter aside, his gaze falling upon the piano. He would not think of Rockefeller, let alone anyone else right now, his present dilemma set aside for something more important than appeasing an old robber baron that, assuredly, did not have much time left on this decrepit earth. For now, the music called to him, and he answered it with an aptitude that his twelve-year-old self had exerted over thirty years before.

The compositions of Beethoven consequently flooded the mansion for the next hour, as all within the house—even Marcus and Alexander, who were both lying prostrate with exhaustion on their beds—were caught up in a haunting whirlwind of sound that Cal naturally composed downstairs.

…

When Albert Gainsborough arrived at the Hockley mansion, precisely at seven, he was greeted by, not only a stern-faced butler named Grimsbury, who starkly reminded him of an undertaker from _Oliver Twist_, but also by a barrage of color and sound. He barely registered Charlotte's sharp cry of delight, as the music which poured through the foyer claimed the whole of his attention.

"My God, who on earth is that playing the _Moonlight Sonata's_ third movement?" he asked her after handing his coat and hat to a maid. He watched the woman disappear down the hall, obviously planning to inform her employer that he'd arrived. Shaking his head, he turned to Charlotte, and took in the beautiful sight that completed her. "You look beautiful," he said, meaning it, for he'd never before seen the color pink as lavish and enchanting as it looked on Charlotte now, her golden hair adorned with a matching headband, a thin line of diamonds enhancing its subtle beauty. He instantly flushed when she gave him a coy smile, but then the music, as it had before, stole his attention. "But again, who is that playing? I daresay I've never heard _anyone_ play that composition so flawlessly, and to such a degree!"

Charlotte, obviously pleased by his bewilderment, gave him an endearing smile. "Can't you guess?" she asked, obviously teasing him. "That's _Daddy_ playing."

A spectacled Albert tore his gaze from the hall, his slack-jawed expression garnering a laugh. "You jest, surely. I had no idea that your father could play the piano. My own father never once spoke of it, and the two have corresponded for years! No one in society has ever mentioned it, either."

At this inference, Charlotte merely shrugged her shoulders. "Apparently, Daddy never talks about it, since he's only just returned to playing. Believe it or not, but, according to some of the servants here, it's been well over thirty years since he last played, and yet he plays as if he hadn't stopped a day. It's amazing though, isn't it? I'm quite proud of him. For the past week, I've listened to him play into the night." She laughed at Albert's shocked expression. "Yes, he plays until dawn sometimes, and then goes to work, before he repeats the whole thing over when he returns home."

"My word," gasped Albert. "It must be exhilarating to have that much stamina. I don't think I could ever hope to compare." He felt a gentle hand rest on his arm.

Charlotte's blue eyes countered his in their soft-spoken measure, the dark solitude enhancing their soulful gentleness. "And you don't have to," she confided comfortingly, her soft touch kindly reassuring him. "Daddy would never expect the same of you, since even Alexander and Marcus have never had such an aptitude for music. I certainly don't!" She raised her gloved hands before her in emphasis. "My hands were never attuned to playing, I'm afraid. Either way, I could never hope to be as half as wonderful as Daddy." She received a gentlemanly kiss to the back of one of her gloved hands.

"I imagine you play splendidly," Albert contested, though remaining clearly in awe of Caledon Hockley's talents. "But, honestly, I believe your father could even give Rachmaninov a run for his money, playing like that," he said, finding the man to be profoundly, if not insanely, brilliant. "He could play for audiences across the world."

Both proceeded down the hall, and away from the watchful eye of Grimsbury—something of which neither seemed notice—as their hands unconsciously met by their fingertips.

"He could," Charlotte asserted after some time, although was somewhat hesitant of the idea. "But then, I would miss him terribly if he did. I admit I am rather selfish in sharing Daddy with the world, since he seems to hate appeasing it so."

Albert said nothing in return, although his surprised expression was enough to derive the truth in what he thought of her remark. Charlotte chose to ignore it, since she herself understood, albeit only to a certain extent, what her father had endured for almost fifty years; and from what she had witnessed herself, particularly from odious interlopers like Nelson Rockefeller, she understood, if in part, her father's disinterest in attending every social function dotted on the calendar.

"Perhaps things are different in England. After all, it's the custom of the country here, to please everyone, even those whom you secretly dislike; whereas your customs are, assuredly, very different, if not more complex than ours," she said finally, pausing momentarily to listen to the final arc of the movement, although was fully aware of her companion's awkward attempt at an apology.

The music came to an abrupt end before another composition took its place, and Charlotte smiled, inordinately pleased by her father's continuance. She cast Albert a knowing grin. "It's quite all right, Albert, I forgive you. I suppose that you'll have to know about my family's strange tendencies sooner or later—particularly mine, if we are to remain friends."

Her companion laughed pleasantly. "I don't find anything strange about you, Charlotte. In fact, I have to confess that I don't even understand my own society's rules; I certainly don't understand why my own father refuses to admit that the revised Gold Standard isn't working." He shook his head, an obvious sadness overcoming him. "My country's ways are far stranger than yours could ever be. At least you don't have to worry over failing to make a proper impression on royalty. I…accidently turned my back on a prince once."

Charlotte gasped, a gloved hand coming to her mouth in disbelief. "You didn't!"

Albert gave her a rueful look. "I did. I believe it's partly the reason why Father sent me here, since I've been a complete embarrassment to the family." He shrugged when she remained silent. "I don't mind it, really, since I'm free to attend college, without having to worry whether my father disapproves or not. And besides, it appears I have one acquaintance here that makes all the difference in leaving home."

"Oh, Albert," Charlotte murmured, clearly moved by his declaration. "I am…happy you are here, as well." She said nothing when he took one of her hands in his, her eyes made captive by the tacit uncertainty dwelling in his. "Your friendship is one of the most treasured things I possess."

The dark composition of Beethoven's _Seventh Symphony in A Major_ filled the space between Charlotte's declaration and Albert's pause; for when Albert finally found the words he wanted to say, and the courage to say them, as he looked into Charlotte's bright eyes, the moment was shattered by the voice of an austere Mrs. Bridgeton.

"Miss Charlotte, I came to tell you that dinner is served," the matron calmly addressed, her expressionless face betraying nothing. She then gave Albert a respectful bow. "I presume you must be Mr. Gainsborough, Mr. Hockley's dinner guest."

Albert straightened himself under the older woman's scrutiny, his hand falling away from Charlotte's. "Yes, madam, I am."

Mrs. Bridgeton inclined her head in a short, curt nod. "If you will kindly follow me, then," she said, leaving no room for either to refuse her. She gave Charlotte a disapproving look, and whispered when the young woman was within her earshot, "Go on to dinner, and I will summon your father."

Charlotte nodded in understanding, silently grateful that the matron had allowed her this small kindness, for if Cal, and not Mrs. Bridgeton, had come upon her and Albert…she dreaded to imagine what would surely entail the suggestion of a scandal. Her father would be displeased by her conduct, and she infinitely crushed by turns, for allowing such a thing, albeit unintentionally, to happen. They had done nothing, of course, but she also knew that her father had yet to approve of her friend, although in her heart she wished for something more—and, dare she hope, her feelings were reciprocated—between them.

It was a foolish hope, certainly, since love was ever seldom found in matches designated by their society, including among those of her personal acquaintance. She could only hope for the best in a marriage that her father arranged, although he hadn't taken any steps to ensure such a jointure. Her official début into society had been a little over three years ago, and since then she had not received a single marital prospect that had been to her father's liking.

In fact, her beloved father hadn't seemed troubled by her remaining unmarried in the slightest, opting instead to keep her home, and remain a father's dutiful, loving daughter. It had been a designation she adored, since she could not fathom living a day without saying a word to her father, or being in his presence; but what she felt for the man presently walking beside of her…she couldn't begin to describe it. It was a sensation whose description had long evaded her, although she held it close, trying to define why it made her feel so dizzy, yet remaining conscious while she watched as time stood still around her at the same time. She could not even begin to understand what she felt, but she knew that she would miss it terribly if she lost it forever.

By the time they made it to the dining room, everyone, except for her father, was seated, a look of impatience crossing the faces of her younger siblings.

"You took long enough to answer the door, sister dear," derided a frosty Alexander, undoubtedly measuring up a silent Albert. "And dinner was about to get cold, with all this waiting around for Father to finish playing that dreadful instrument of his."

Charlotte was moved to speak out, but fate intervened in her sharp reprimand, coming in the form of her father.

"Charlotte," Cal acknowledged quietly, subtly urging that she take her place, which she wisely did, before he turned to Albert. "Mr. Gainsborough, so glad you could attend this evening." He extended a hand in greeting, which Albert gratefully accepted.

"Sir," he said, clearly at a loss for words, as the man before him issued a sense of self-confidence that far exceeded his own. He stared at the owner of Hockley Steel with a look of uncertainty as he took his seat at Cal's right side. "I…heard you playing the piano when I arrived," he began, courteously waiting until his host sat down. "Your ability to reproduce one of Beethoven's most difficult sonatas is beyond anything that is comprehensible. I truly find myself in awe of your talents."

Cal, however, simply dismissed the accolades he received. "It's merely a personal interest I've presently taken in and nothing more, Mr. Gainsborough." He nodded to the young man in polite acknowledgement, and then glanced at the rest of children, observing each with a hint of disinterest. It had been years since all of them were together, pretending to be the perfect, happy family they portrayed themselves to be. It was a lie, of course; but for company's sake, they indulged in that much-expected fallacy. He caught his eldest son's eye and held it for a fraction of a second.

Alexander shifted nervously in his chair when that cold gaze fell upon him. He looked down at his plate, silently praying that his father hadn't heard his comment. He almost breathed out a sigh of relief when that damning all-seeing gaze left him as it considered someone more unfortunate than he. He didn't begrudge his brother or sisters, wishing them all the best under that unnerving stare. After his confrontation with the old man last week, he'd had more than enough in enraging his father to last him three lifetimes, especially since the man deliberately broke with tradition in remaining in his attire from work. The very act had left him both astounded and baffled by turns.

He failed to notice Cal's slight smirk as his thoughts turned once again to the empty plate before him. Damn it all, he was starving, and the fucking servants were running behind schedule. What a way to end an equally uneventful day. He then caught his uncertain brother's gaze, the tacit exchange between the two a secret agreement that their father's instruction was taking a heavy toll on both. For not even a week out, and it seemed that Marcus, although tired and a little better for wear, was clearly the more suitable choice in taking over. Alexander didn't hate him for it, either; he wished his brother all the luck in the world, if in the event their father chose him as the sole inheritor of the company. He even expressed as much in that silent moment when he nodded to his brother in a way that shown he understood.

The stilted sound of an army of footsteps severed that fraternal contact, however, as each was finally served their respective meal. Their preferences ranged from well-done to medium on the main course, which was, oddly for tonight, that of Cal's own, personal choosing: beef chasseur with asparagus tips au gratin and a canapé of anchovies. Other courses were included, naturally, although the way in which each was prepared spoke volumes of those at the table. Champagne and wine was served, a bottle of Cal's best wine reserved for only himself and the guest of honor, as Cal urged Albert try when the servants departed.

"It's one of the best vintages, I assure you," he said, watching as his guest imbibed in the imported wine. The suspicious looks his sons cast Charlotte's companion were not lost on him, either, an expression of tangible disdain evident behind the amiable smiles they instinctively wore.

Albert, however, was oblivious to their secret derision, as he timidly looked down at his own plate, which was, mercifully, rather well-done. He cast Charlotte, who, sitting directly across from him, a grateful smile, knowing well enough that she'd had the discretion in suggesting his preferences to the staff ahead of time. It had been no secret between them, after all, since his unfortunate encounter with a spoiled filet mignon left him with a sensitivity of eating things burnt to a cinder. Charlotte had sympathized with him naturally, as was her concern in pleasing him tonight, her own meal mirroring his almost perfectly. The girl was an absolute angel in that respect, since her other siblings were far more adventurous than he, choosing more exotic tastes that he regrettably refrained from. However, most shockingly of all, perhaps, was his host's choice of dining.

Rare did not even begin to define the way in which Caledon Hockley's meal was prepared, and Albert, along with everyone else seated at that imposing, dark mahogany dining room table, could not help but mask their shocked expressions with the pretence of taking a passive interest in the room's Georgian accented chairs. Only Charlotte departed from that absurdly fashioned status quo her younger siblings had awkwardly inducted. She looked at Cal with genuinely concern, since he had issued his own dining arrangements with the staff without her knowledge. Perhaps there had been a mistake; surely, such was the case, since she'd never seen her father partake in anything so horrifying. She said nothing, however, when their eyes met, as she dutifully looked once again at her own plate. There was no mistake as she so desperately wanted to believe; he had chosen this culinary horror for himself.

No one spoke as Cal initiated dinner with a toast to their esteemed guest, the gauche silence which duly followed suit a beautifully composed symphony to his ears. He nodded to his children and Albert, prompting them to eat. "This is beyond exceptional," he said after a thoughtful moment, taking a small, bloody chunk of beef into his mouth, visibly savoring its sanguine taste. He nodded to an unsmiling Charlotte. "You've undone yourself, my dear, as I am sure you will be a most accomplished hostess of your own household one day." A swig of dark-red wine subsequently followed, as the bloody mess on his plate was consumed with slow, almost painful, precision.

It took everything in Marcus not to excuse himself from the table for a much-needed respite in the lavatory, whereas Celia looked at a green-hued Alexander and smiled. "A little squeamish, are we, dear brother?" she queried amusedly, despite her mutual disgust, and the embarrassment both felt from their father.

Alexander said nothing, although the glare he silently cast her advised that she shut her pretty mouth before he extended her that courtesy himself.

A cruel, delightfully reserved smile only assured him of that innate wisdom in her continued silence as she looked at her beautifully troubled sister and felt only the slightest implication of sympathy. It was as much as she was willing to afford a sibling made legitimate through their father's machinations and social ties, as well as the many years spent in conditioning a bastard steerage orphan from the lower reaches of society. She wholly ignored the ongoing silence and her father's deplorable eating habits as she considered the sister who sat at her side through veiled eyes of envy.

Pearls and fine gowns of satin and chiffon only concealed the horrid truth, which their father tried to so often hide behind wealth and a good name—not that Celia cared to divulge as much to her sister's homely companion. She herself would be much better off if Charlotte married the toad, since her sister would effectively lose that hard-earned respect of their father's, which Charlotte had claimed so effortlessly, while she and her brothers—their father's very own blood kin—had to content themselves with only scraps of his hollow affections. For Charlotte had it all: beauty, charm, and a natural grace—everything that all within society praised, as it was the very same accolades she received—not regarding herself, of course, but those pertaining to her sister—whenever she attended a function both with and without Charlotte, whose presence outshone everyone, save for Cal himself.

She inwardly grimaced as she looked down at her half-eaten meal. Watching her father finish the last of that bloody atrocity with a natural gracefulness he so inherently exerted repulsed her. It wasn't as if she loved him; she barely knew him. Though to be usurped by her father's charity case…it was almost too much to bear at times, the insult clouding her better judgment as she, rather surreptitiously, had the grace to slide her hand against Charlotte's champagne glass, the subtle force causing it to tilt dangerously over.

"Oh my!" Charlotte suddenly cried out as she helplessly watched it fall forward.

Celia was ready to issue a half-hearted apology, barely suppressing a smile, before she almost cried out herself, when a large hand emerged in between the impending chaos as it adroitly caught the glass and its contents, thus saving Charlotte's dress and shattering her own dignity in one single motion.

Charlotte gave Cal an indebted smile, before gingerly taking her champagne glass from him. "Thank you, Daddy," she murmured, placing the glass at the center of the table. She gave her sister a compassionate look of understanding before returning her attention to Cal.

Cal merely inclined his head to Charlotte, although his eyes remained sharply fixed on Celia. _You will sorely regret it if you try anything else, you spiteful little witch_, that dark gaze silently assured her. He ignored the stifled looks of surprise he received from his sons, as he took great pleasure in watching his sniveling harpy of a daughter shrink in her seat in shame, for that commanding look of his alone ensured that she attempted nothing else for the remainder of the evening.

In an effort to dispel the tension, he clasped his hands in a fluid motion of making polite conversation. He turned to a silent Albert, acknowledging the young man as if nothing had happened. "Now that we've averted that little happenstance, why don't you tell us how you came to be of my daughter's acquaintance, Mr. Gainsborough?" he said smoothly, watching as the young man at his side anxiously adjusted his spectacles.

"We met a few months ago, at the Conservatory," Albert replied, having the good fortune not to stutter in his response. "It was near Christmastime, and I was on break from my studies. On a whim, I decided to visit it, since I'd heard of the vast array of exotic plants it housed." He gave a quick glance at Charlotte, who happily shared in his recollection.

"It is an intriguing place to visit," she asserted, to which Albert duly agreed.

"Quite so," he returned, before looking once again at Cal. "I recall looking at a rare bromeliad when I happened to see your daughter walking with Mr. Westinghouse's youngest grandson."

Cal nodded sagely at this. "I remember now. Young Aubrey had a desire to visit his grandfather's mansion that had been transported from Washington, and Charlotte managed to talk me into allowing her to accompany him there, as well as around town, if memory serves." He gave her a perfunctory wink.

Charlotte brightened at the small, yet tender, gesture, forgetting her present unease entirely. "Oh, come now, Daddy, as I recall, that little outing wasn't entirely of my own devising, since you had Mr. and Mrs. Westinghouse thoroughly engaged, with George Thomas in tow at the mills!"

"So I did," Cal replied noncommittally, affording her an approving nod at her clever retort. Clearly, the girl had inherited a fraction of his wit. _All for the better_, he figured, as he listened to Albert, since the young man continued on in great detail about how he met Charlotte. It was certainly a meeting ordained by chance that, if Cal truly considered it, reflected his own with a former interest from long ago. _Although it wasn't in a conservatory that housed tropical plants, but at a funeral that contained a hothouse rose_.

A snicker of laughter broke Cal out of his present musings, his eldest son clearly taking an interest in the conversation. "So, the flora and the fauna brought you two together, then? Oh, that is rich!" barked an amused Alexander, while Marcus frowned at his brother's tactless approach.

Turning to Albert, the younger brother confided, "If you want to show our sister a real good time, you should take her to the theatre. I've heard that Nixon's has a fine production of _Dracula,_ featuring Raymond Huntley himself, running this month. It would surely be…quite elucidating, considering it's based on something of a historical nature. And since you're English, you could very well teach her everything that those stuffy American theatre critics know precious little about. I plan to go one night myself."

Alexander groaned at the suggestion. "That's not at all surprising, Marcus, since _anything_ will turn your head, particularly those silly little horror stories you keep yourself up nights reading. I was nearly bored to tears when I finally read the one about that lecherous monk who seduced and murdered his sister. The premise was good, but the execution I found wholly wanting and quite poor by half. Ghosts and vampires—as if those things truly exist!" He snorted at the possibility of such creatures existing, blind to the disquieting look his father gave him.

"They're not silly little horror stories!" Marcus countered, clearly affronted, "since Gothic Horror is its own genre. And besides which, it's far more respectable, compared to that cheap form of entertainment you find in the north end of town."

"Sons," Cal cut in suddenly, his fork poised sharply against his bloodstained plate.

His sons caught his silent look, and both sobered under its direct gaze, since neither could forget last week—not even if their lives depended on it. For they had seen a different side of their father, a side…they wished never to see again. Cal had cemented that underlying fear, as it would remain a testament to what he could do, yet refrained from enacting. Tonight's family dinner had only furthered that truth, and a foolish spat like the one they were presently invoking—in front of a son of one of their father's colleagues—would surely revisit that wrath upon them. It was something that neither could afford to live through ever again.

And so, the direction of the conversation changed, albeit evolving into a discussion about Bram Stoker himself, as Albert found himself answering a barrage of questions that Marcus threw in his direction. "Well, yes, Mr. Stoker died in London, but was essentially Irish. He never visited Transylvania, although he certainly was aware of the folklore pertaining to the undead there," he elucidated after one particular inquiry. "As I recall, he was a strong supporter of England's Liberal Party, and devoted his life to both theatre and Irish nationalism, albeit was also an adherent to the Crown, which is somewhat contradictory to the concept of Home Rule, in all respects. Of course, I am sure that such may not be appealing to you, unlike his writings assuredly are. But then, you should've seen some of his work in the theatre."

Marcus' eager expression doubled at this. "You met him, then?" he asked, truly impressed, all preconceptions about this obviously far-from-plain dinner guest gone.

Albert almost laughed, truly enjoying the young man's interest. "I was five at the time. One evening, my father took my elder brother and I to the Lyceum, where Mr. Stoker worked at the time. The man actually spoke to me, and gave me a signed playbill of that night's performance." He absentmindedly adjusted his spectacles, before continuing. "I actually have some of his earlier works with me. If you'd like, I could loan them to you to read. Of course, they're nothing like _Dracula_, but they're his writings all the same. _The Lair of the White Worm_ is particularly good."

"That would be grand, Mr. Gainsborough," Marcus answered, before looking to Cal for consent to continue such a correspondence, which he gained with a permissive, half-nod.

Albert then promised to have them delivered before he left for England, just so long as Marcus, from that point on, referred to him as Albert. "I'm not one for formality, among those who have a shared interest in literature," he confessed in kind. "But I trust you'll look after them while I'm gone, since I dearly hate to cart them about from country to country. I'm always afraid I'll somehow lose one during transport." He heard Charlotte laugh, and he smiled. "It is a minute fear of mine, Miss Hockley, I assure you, but a veritable fear, all the same."

"So you're taking precautions by entrusting them to _Marcus_?" she teased. "He may, _accidently_, lose them among the rest of his books. He has so many regarding every dark thing imaginable."

"You wound me, Charlotte," broke in a grinning Marcus, mocking chagrin. "Truly, you do. I feel as if you don't trust me, which isn't very sisterly of you, now is it?"

Charlotte offered him a wicked grin. "Of course not, dear brother. It's simply why I live to torment you," she teased, but then conceded. "I trust you implicitly, Marcus. After all, you haven't lost any of the ones I've lent you."

Her younger brother beamed at that. "Exactly," he remarked, turning once again to his newfound friend. "Now that _that_ is settled, I must ask you, Albert, if you've ever studied anything that pertains to that of a psychic nature? I mean, do you honestly believe that normal people have the ability to read thoughts and predict certain outcomes in the future?"

Albert remained silent for a moment, his look thoughtful before he answered, "I have heard of such things. I've never encountered anything personally, save for those parlor tricks played on grieving families that some charlatans made so terribly popular during the War." He grimaced at the reality behind his words. "It's why your Harry Houdini was so skeptical, I believe. Though to answer your question, I do know of some particular occurrences that involve a very close acquaintance of mine."

Marcus' eyes widened. "Well, doesn't that beat everything? Who on earth is it, then? You have to tell us now!"

"You had better, Albert," Charlotte broke in, half-seriously, "or otherwise Marcus might just _burst_ from curiosity."

And Albert relented, "Very well. I suppose he won't mind my telling you, since it's already public knowledge that some of his acquaintances have received readings." He shrugged his shoulders and adjusted his spectacles once more, before revealing, "It's my father who has been in recent contact with someone, actually from your shores," he replied, obviously surprising everyone at the table, although Cal, as was suggested by his mechanically lighting a cigarette, remained completely indifferent.

"Your father?" Marcus echoed, almost in disbelief. "But I thought your father—"

"Is a sensible businessman, who has a good head for everything, concerning the steel industry," Albert finished for him with a knowing look. "Yes, he is, but he also appreciates the opinion of someone who is considered credible in affairs that affect his business personally, since he does not wish to put his business in the unreliable hands of unscrupulous speculators," he concluded, catching the surprised looks of Alexander and Celia, who had undoubtedly pegged him originally for a simpleminded hangers-on to his father's checkbook.

He shook his head, and instinctively adjusted his glasses once again. "But I am digressing. As you may know, my father is a very close acquaintance of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and the two often correspond with one another. It was on such an occasion that Sir Arthur mentioned a certain Mr. Edgar Cayce to my father. He claimed that the man had knowledge beyond any in the ways of business, medicine, politics, and all that concerned every living being—who does all under self-imposed hypnosis—if you can believe it. I believe that is why, after hearing of his success in stumping Sir Arthur Conan Doyle himself, and even surprising Harry Houdini, who failed to prove him a fraud, my father decided to him seek out."

Alexander frowned. "I've heard of this so-called 'Sleeping Prophet' from a few of my classmates at college. They believed him a complete fraud, since all of them have the good sense not to believe in that mumbo jumbo about palm readers and seeing into the future. Because, if such is indeed true, I might well better off like my brother over there"—He gave a half-acknowledging glance at Marcus—"and hide under the sheets at night, since I'd be fearful of my own shadow."

"I'm not afraid of shadows," retorted an irritated Marcus. He ignored the caustic grin his brother cast him. "No matter, I find the whole thing interesting, anyhow," he remarked, returning the ball of conversation into Albert's court. "It's rather remarkable, that your own father has received readings. Have any of them turned out true?"

Albert nodded. "Yes, the readings Mr. Cayce sent have, oddly enough, come to pass. It's for that reason that my father continues to correspond with Mr. Cayce, whenever he finds the need to seek out advice, particularly over stocks and the foreign market." He paused for a moment, before thoughtfully adding, "I know it sounds absurd, but I do believe him, since I've heard that his own wife contracted tuberculosis, and one of his readings prescribed a cure for it. That was almost twenty years ago, but, if he can cure an incurable disease, then I believe his readings on business and finances must prove to be equally true, no matter his failing to remember anything after the reading is concluded."

A dark eyebrow rose in question at this. "You say he does all of this under a trance, and remembers nothing from the reading?" Cal asked, speaking for the first time on the subject.

"Yes, sir," Albert replied neutrally, although surprise lay within his voice. "He claims to remember nothing from any of the sessions he conducts, even for those he does abroad. My father usually receives them by telegram or letter, since he isn't always free to see Mr. Cayce in person."

"Interesting," Cal remarked, before returning to his cigarette.

Albert said nothing in response, since there was no need. Marcus continued to remark on his own personal interest in such matters, and Albert, naturally, accommodated his curiosity. Though all the same, he secretly wondered about the head of the Hockley family; for if the man before him had any interest in the subject, he didn't show it, as he took another drag from his cigarette, and watched his children discuss mesmerism and the occult.

At one point, Charlotte asked where such a man resided, believing him a man of wide recognition.

"He resides in Virginia Beach," Albert answered for her. "And, strange as it may appear, he is actually considered somewhat of a recluse."

Alexander smirked at that. "You mean he doesn't wish to be recognized for this so-called ability of his?" he posed skeptically, while Celia sided with him with a barely concealed smile of her own. "I suppose having a sideshow act at Coney Island is out of the question, then."

Albert failed to be baited by Alexander, as he ignored the young man's—as well as his incorrigible younger his sister's—deplorable sense of humor. He found it tasteless to mock a man, perhaps more knowledgeable than he, even if the fellow had no more than an eighth grade education. He continued, instead, to answer more of Marcus and Charlotte's questions, where all the while their gracious host, who remained dubiously silent, watched them as he took in the last dregs of his cigarette.

…

It was well past midnight before everyone in the Hockley mansion—including all of Cal's children, since he forbade Marcus and Alexander leaving to have a night out in town—had retired to their rooms for the night, though perhaps not for bed—not that their being asleep yet mattered all that much, particularly to their father. The only thing that mattered, at present, was that the whole, messy affair at dinner was finally over, and that he had the freedom to pursue a life beyond the cares and troubles of his family.

Just as he was doing now, sitting in a darkened corner at a grand theatre and watching a play—though more like a parody, if he were to be perfectly honest—based on _Dracula_. From what he remembered of the novel, key plot elements were either omitted or changed entirely, as there were times he almost found himself recoiling at the overly dramatic behavior of some of the actors, mainly from the one playing Dracula. He muttered an oath and reached for another cigarette. How anyone derived any sort of pleasure from such a sordid display of hysterics was beyond him; he could scarcely stomach it himself.

Shaking his head, he lit his cigarette, before breathing in its comforting, toxic fumes, as thoughts of Charlotte's doddering companion plagued his mind. He doubted he could have been any more relieved when he caught his final sight of Albert Gainsborough, for which, he hoped, would be many months. He inwardly grimaced as he looked down at those onstage. It wasn't that he detested the young man, but the sight of that heartfelt exchange between the ever-so-surprising Mr. Gainsborough and Charlotte he'd witnessed had almost been enough to make him lose his nerve. He had left them to have a private farewell, although he could hear every word and uttered sigh exchanged, from his vantage point in the study. What they said or did were not beyond the boundaries of propriety—far from it—but the intensity of their farewell, both undoubtedly bitter and sweet, he was sure, expressed a tender feeling that Cal had no wish to venture into considering.

In fact, he outright refused to.

Instead, he watched the play and took another unenthusiastic drag of his cigarette. He had hoped this experience would prove to be enlightening, given his personal interest. Though all too soon, he found himself disappointed, his other hand clutching the brass railing in front of him. He'd honestly hated reading the novel, while the play, he presently discovered, was infinitely worse. Naturally, he'd never been one for the supernatural, preferring instead to adhere to science and all that came with reason and understanding, not this newfound interest in superstition and the occult. _As it certainly isn't anything like the hell I've been through lately_. He scowled at the actor playing the lead part, finding nothing but a deepening hatred for the way in which the man paraded himself about onstage, as he indulged himself in drinking the _blood_ of the living and sleeping during the daylight hours, under the very noses of his would-be pursuers. It galled Cal to even watch, knowing that such was far from his own experience. Sleeping during the day was certainly not an option for him. _Nor do I intend it to be. I will not live my life around the dictations of the sun_.

He then heard one of the actors mention Transylvania. He paused in mid-criticism. If he remembered correctly, Transylvania was somewhere in whatever country now occupied Romania. He frowned at the connection. For wasn't that where Dawson had claimed that the whore was from? He'd already forgotten what the gutter rat called her kind, something strange and beginning with what he was sure was an S, although he couldn't remember exactly. _Since all of it seemed like a goddamned dream at the time_. He looked down at the scene transpiring before him, with a man cloaked in an absurdly dark cape, flaunting himself as one who hailed from an ancient line of nobility. He refrained from rolling his eyes, his hand unconsciously tapping the butt of his cigarette against the railing. It was almost agonizing to endure watching such an overly dramatic display, with a company of players he found to be less than capable of portraying their respective roles.

He almost found it a mercy that he hadn't thought to bring Charlotte or Marcus with him, although the thought of the latter did encourage his otherwise dismal pursuit in learning more about his condition; he would never dare call it anything else, whatever Dawson and the others said to the contrary. _Although tonight's dinner proved strangely satisfactory_, he thought, remembering how succulent the blood had been, and how it flavored the otherwise bland beef he'd consumed. It had sustained him, at least, and he knew that, although he'd enjoyed the scandalized looks he'd received from everyone at dinner, he would continue to demand his food be fashioned in the same manner, shock and dismay from both his staff and children be damned. He no longer cared what anyone thought of him, much less about his eating habits.

And yet, the concern he'd received from Charlotte made him feel, however slightly, a sense of regret. He had no wish to worry her, and he wouldn't, if he could help it. His daughter's continued approval and admiration of him were the only things that mattered, in spite of putting the rest of his children in their places. He certainly should have done so sooner with his daughter, even though she was only a spoiled fifteen-year-old girl in want of attention. Perhaps he should've been more diplomatic at dinner, although he found himself approving of the way the young Gainsborough handled himself. The young man, albeit slightly put-off at first, had been no less amiable and courteous. _It was as if he_ _almost accepted everything he saw, although I already know as to _why_, perhaps_. He made a face, casting aside the likelihood as his thoughts returned to his own dilemma. He thought of the conversation between Marcus and their esteemed guest, and what such might entail for him personally. In this, Gainsborough's rather obscure knowledge of the paranormal would perhaps prove to be beneficial—especially when he sent Marcus those books.

When he returned, he would have to filter through Marcus' private collection—discreetly, of course—since his son's unassuming intellect might be of use to him after all. But for now, he would see what this _Dracula_ business was playing at something so prestigious as the Nixon Theatre, although he could fairly guess where the rest of this train wreck was headed.

He endured it for another hour, as the play came to its, rather unsurprisingly, anticlimactic, if not predictable, conclusion. Cal didn't even bother to stay for the players' standing ovation, choosing instead to make his way home. He had more pressing matters that required his attention, than to half-heartedly applaud something of which he'd lost interest in.

No one noticed him leave, the theatre already a blur as he used his newfound speed instead of relying on the use of a car and chauffeur. He made it back to the mansion within mere minutes, compared to the hour's drive it would take him by car. He almost found the ability worthy of being considered useful, especially since he'd no wish to waste the rest of his night by taking the time to travel from one place to another. The advancement in speed was much more convenient, especially since he had a phone call to make.

He ignored the odd look he received from Grimsbury when he returned. The old man never asked any questions of his employer, although Cal's being out without a car and chauffeur puzzled even one as used to the nighttime affairs two generations of Hockleys made in his service to them as Grimsbury. Cal only nodded in the man's direction before dismissing him from his sight completely.

There was much to be done, and he had little time to spare, the grandfather clock in the hall already tolling the hour of three. He closed the study's door without a second thought, locking it. He would not be disturbed—not after coming to the conclusion he'd made when he watched Huntley's Dracula fall prey to a group of stupid, insensible Englishmen. The staking had placed his present concern into perspective, since he had no desire to have some idiot to drive a sharp piece of wood through _his_ chest. The whole notion was beyond ridiculous, and he scoffed at how some people thought such an ailment needed to be cured, even though a cure was what he sought.

He hesitated at the thought, and looked down at his desk where his hands resided. He took a long, careful look at them, the nails he'd clipped the night before, already, well beyond any comfortable length; but he considered them nonetheless, understanding precisely what power derived from their sharp ends, and how disgustingly normal he'd be without them. He'd almost grown used to their presence, as well as everything else that had come with them.

If he found a cure, however…

He then grasped the handle of the desk's upper right-hand drawer, pulling it until he saw the pistol he'd kept locked away. He'd stared at its silvery length many nights, thinking, wondering what would happen, should he take its barrel in between his teeth and pull the trigger. It would certainly cure any pain afflicting him. Just one tight pull of his index finger and every care and trouble he had would be gone. He only needed the courage to take it from its quiet resting place and entrust it with one final act.

A tired sigh escaped from him then, even though he had no need to exhale, as his hand, if only for a quarter of an inch, reached forward, toward that silent promise of cold absolution. He imagined touching its polished surface, its cold steel clashing with his equally cold hand, before something on his desk caught his eye. His spectacles, which lay inconspicuously to his left side. He frowned at the sight of them. Had he taken them out of his desk? He couldn't recall. Undoubtedly Charlotte had, thinking he'd forgotten them again. He slammed the drawer shut at the thought of her, the pistol forgotten entirely. Damn it. Of all times, for the girl to make him feel like a wretched, heartless son of a bitch. He shook his head, calming himself. It would not do to act out of turn—not tonight—since he usually regretted the aftermath. Composing himself, he looked again at the discarded spectacles, and the care they'd received in his absence, a decision made in that solitary moment.

He reached for the telephone and waited for the operator. "Yes," he said after a long, deliberating moment, "I would like to place a call to a Mr. Edgar Cayce in Virginia Beach."

…

**Author's Notes: Ooh, there might be a bit of foreshadowing there, with that pistol. That being said, I have to admit that it is so strange to post another chapter so soon, since I usually take months. I am glad I did, though, especially since I wanted to post something before the end of the month. I also realize the dinner scene didn't have a lot of Cal angst, but I felt the scene needed to develop on the rest of Cal's family, as well as Albert. I hope I conveyed his and Charlotte's mutual regard for one another adequately. I want their attraction to each another to be believable. I had also intended for that particular scene to be more awkward than what it inevitably turned out to be. I decided to leave it as it was, since I have a better idea of where to place the awkwardness I'd originally planned between Cal and Albert, which we should see in a couple of chapters.**

**The entrées mentioned came from a real menu at that time. If anyone is interested in reading the menu in full, please let me know, and I will send a link.**

**I must also confess that I do take some artistic license with lot of historical figures throughout this story, since I'm not always a hundred percent sure if they were in Pittsburgh at the time or not. I do know that the Westinghouse family spent a majority of the year in Tucson, although the senior George Westinghouse, who is the founder of Westinghouse Electric, does have a memorial in Pittsburgh. It would be strange if the family didn't visit it, as well as his grave in Arlington. As for John D. Rockefeller, he had, at one time, owned some oil refineries in Pittsburgh before selling them, I believe, so it's possible he visited on occasion, even if he retired from the oil industry.**

**As for the inclusion of Edgar Cayce, the man is, by far, my favorite of what is considered a prophet or a modern-day seer. He certainly takes precedence over Nostradamus, at any rate. He's just more relatable to people of today, I feel. We'll see how Cal does with someone like Cayce, since it's going to be interesting putting those two in a room together! XD What's mentioned in this chapter about him should be accurate, since a lot of people, both known and not, did request readings from him.**

**The Grand Guignol Theatre in Paris opened in 1897, and later closed in 1962. However, its popularity inspired similar theatres in London and other cities. Coney Island did have freak shows at that time, some acts of which were very strange, and would surely put someone like Cal, who is opposed to certain acts of public display, off.**

**Sergei Rachmaninov was a twentieth century Russian composer whose works include **_**Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini**_** and a score of other compositions. From what I understand, some of his compositions are very difficult to play on the piano, hence Albert's comment about Cal's skill. The man is just that amazing with a piano, apparently.**

**Also, Charlotte's remark on pleasing everyone being the custom of the country comes from Edith Wharton's novel of the same name. In a way, there are parallels between her novel and this story, concerning marriage and society. It's certainly an interesting novel, and is worth reading. As for Albert's own society, England was in a mess with the revised Gold Standard in the 1920s, which probably didn't help anyone when the Crash of '29 hit. The impending Crash is something to keep in mind in this story also.**

**The conservatory Albert and Charlotte met at is the Phipps Conservatory, which was built in 1893. It's probably one of Pittsburgh's most enduring structures, since the Nixon Theatre, sadly, is no more. I shall try to have some photos of both places listed in my bio, for anyone who is curious to see what they looked like at that time.**

**Alexander's remark about the monk and the sister is from Matthew Lewis' novel, **_**The Monk**_**. It's a dirty little read, which sometimes borders on the hysterical side of things. But for those who enjoy sensationalism and a grittier side to life, it's a decent novel. The history mentioned about Bram Stoker should be accurate. If I'm wrong, someone please correct me.**

**To a Stoker fan, Hamilton Deane's 1924 **_**Dracula **_**play is probably as bad as Cal's reaction is to it. It certainly veers far from the original source material, which probably makes a lot of people scratch their heads, as to why Jonathon Harker is engaged to Lucy instead of Mina, who is very much dead at the beginning of the play. O.0; Oddly enough, though, Raymond Huntley was performing his role as Dracula at that time in Pittsburgh. I just thought it terribly ironic, considering Cal's dilemma, and just had to include it in this chapter. **

**And I will not even begin to go into Romania's history as a country. Occupation here, occupation there. It was too much of a headache to even research, so I really didn't bother this time around. I think Cal rather aptly placed what was going on there at the time, anyhow. European countries were in a terrible state after the First World War, so thank God Cal is staying in America, otherwise I'd have a tangled mess on my hands.**

**Amanda, thanks so much! I am delighted that you enjoyed the last chapter; you really set the bar for this one! I just hope it's of the same standard as the previous chapter. Really, I have a lot of difficulty with dialogue, but the scene between Cal and Nathan just flowed somehow. There will certainly be more interaction between those two, I can promise you that. And so glad you enjoyed Cal and Alexander's confrontation! ^.^ That was a bit of a challenge to pull off, since Cal doesn't seem to be all that good with his children. I plan to have more between them, especially in the upcoming chapters! :D**

**Lee, you're certainly right about Cal's ability to substitute human blood. I really should have been more direct about that, since it was only vaguely mentioned a couple of times. I hope the dinner scene, and Cal's thoughts later on, make up for that. Again, I should have been more upfront about that, and am sorry not to have done so sooner than this.**

**And to Reviewer No. 27, thank you! I wholeheartedly agree about not making Cal out to be mean, but not be completely nice, either, because he isn't. He will meet with Rose again soon enough, I promise!**

**But again, my thanks to everyone who is reading this story. I truly hope everyone enjoys this latest chapter! :D **

— **Kittie **


	6. Chapter Six: The Sleeping Prophet

Disclaimer: I do not own _Titanic_, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to James Cameron, Paramount Pictures, Twentieth Century Fox, and their respected owners.

Summary: March 1929. He has always possessed her, the claim on her made, long before either realized the consequences derived from it. For a man like Caledon Hockley was not one to give up that which he claimed so easily—not even from beyond the grave.

His Dark Possession

Chapter Six

The midnight train to Virginia Beach was as long in its nightly passage as it was tedious. For the past five hours, Cal had found himself enclosed in the tight, but well-lavished, space of his own private railway car. He desired privacy on this little jaunt to see a reclusive seer; and, as such, the extra fee he'd paid for a bit of some much-needed solitude for the trip's duration was well spent, since he had no wish to interact with anyone, save for the few attendants who brought him whatever he requested—coffee and wine and a thick slice of very rare steak—among other things at his personal disposal.

The attendants never questioned his requests, although one—the porter who had served the steak—regarded the meal questionably, but said nothing concerning any reservations he may have had concerning his current proprietor's culinary tastes. Cal had left the young man a generous twenty dollar tip, knowing that very few of his own class would give such to a young man of color.

He took a cigarette from his coat pocket and lit it. He didn't know why he'd done it, honestly. It wasn't anything that he normally wouldn't do, but the young man had impressed him, with his amiable nature and the almost carefree way that he spoke to his fellow crewmates. Cal had even overheard the porter confessing of his having an ear for the trumpet, and his once being in service to one of the former U.S. Presidents—Cal had forgotten which, although he assumed it was Harding—before managing the Herculean task in serving ten other passengers' luggage in a nearby car.

The porter, whose name Cal later discovered to be was James, had done all of this in Cal's presence, as the steel owner watched how life beyond all of the finery and riches of his own world worked in tandem as class and color barriers became interlocked with one another, yet remained duly separated among their interaction upon something as small and as cramped as a railway car.

He had seen much of the same before, but the reality of it never truly struck him as it did presently. Normally, he wouldn't consider such things as porters or maids, let alone those in his service. He was surprised to think of them even now, but considered the many faces of those who had been in his employ over the years, and the many whose faces and names he couldn't remember. The Hockley family had long held an establishment that required the service of those who upheld such a great and long-lasting dynasty, but those in service had been living, thinking human beings nonetheless, hadn't they? Cal had never really considered the possibility before. But then, even Dawson had surprised him, with that almost bohemian lifestyle he'd so freely led. He idly wondered if the gutter rat had made each day of his miserable, poor, pathetic life count, or if the man was simply blowing smoke out of his ass when he'd made that philosophical speech at dinner that night.

Cal snorted at the likelihood, and took in the intoxicating fumes of his cigarette. He had no wish to think of Dawson, although the memory of the artist remained as a stagnant, ghostly reminder, which loomed in the darkness of his thoughts. He exhaled the breath he held a moment later, a long trail of slate-gray smoke taking on an eerily spectral shape all of its own. Cal watched it until it dissipated completely from sight.

In a way, it almost reminded him of his evening with John Rockefeller, from a few days before. He sighed, half in thought, before crushing the butt of his cigarette into a nearby ashtray. He glanced at its square-cut, lead crystal shape, the mound of ashes revealing how many cigarettes he'd had in the past hour. He shook his head. By the end of it, he'd would probably be smoking as much as the freight train that carried him, not that he smoked with every breath he took, certainly, although he was sure it was damn near close to it.

He looked out of one of the passenger car's opened windows, his thoughts returning to the elder Rockefeller. He was half-tempted to light another cigarette, but stayed his hand. It probably wouldn't do to smoke with every forced breath he took, even if he had an eternity to commit himself to such a perfunctory action. But then, if this Cayce fellow could cure him, why the hell not? He took another cigarette from his case and lit it.

The train let out a loud, shrill whistle, though Cal paid it little mind. Instead, he watched the quiet Virginian countryside pass by him in a flurry of movement, taking a long drag of his cigarette as he thought of his uneventful evening with one of the last surviving robber barons of the last century.

It had been the same as always, when meeting with any of his or his father's contemporaries. Nothing had been out of place—that was, until he'd come to call at Nelson Rockefeller's private residence and found himself barred from entering. He scowled in thought as he flicked the burning end of his cigarette into the ashtray. It had been strange, a fucking anomaly. He couldn't set one foot into the foyer, his entry blocked by an invisible force. He could only enter when Rockefeller himself came to the door, and, with a bemused expression, invited him in. Everything that followed remained as normal and as pedestrian as if he was in his own home.

Either way, it was a bizarre incident that hadn't happened again. And he _finally_ understood why. After perusing through Marcus' small library of horror—when the boy was out, of course—and then forcing himself to again read that atrocious vampire novel, the incident had finally made sense. He could enter public institutions and his own home and properties without incident, but he was ultimately barred from another's private residence, unless the proprietor himself invited him in. The whole notion puzzled him, if not infuriated him, not that he cared for whether or not he was able to enter Nelson Rockefeller's home or not. He cared little for the man, but his grandsire was another matter entirely.

The great John D. Rockefeller was still a vast contender in the financial world, even if he had retired from the oil business almost thirty years before. His old age hadn't deterred him from being a figurehead for a younger generation to follow as a model. Rockefeller had even been a close friend of his father's, although the man had an aesthetic charm that Nathan lacked. Cal would even allow himself to go so far as to say that he himself almost admired the man—almost—since, for all his faults, John D. Rockefeller showed a genuine concern for people, if only for the right ones, of course.

His philanthropy was just a mask—a way of making up for all the less-than-respectable dealings he'd done, and for all the people he'd wronged over the years. His monopoly on oil had granted him a great fortune, yes, but it had also left him with regret. At least, that was what Cal had surmised, since monopolies were always a one-sided convenience for some, with double-edged consequences that affected everyone involved. He himself did not have the luxury of a monopoly on the steel industry, since Andrew Carnegie was granted that entitlement, but he and his forefathers hadn't done too poorly, either.

Quite the opposite.

But then, although he and his predecessors often rubbed shoulders with some of the greatest captains of industry, Caledon Hockley, for all his greatness, wasn't a Rockefeller or a Carnegie. He was not a philanthropist, who made penance for his past sins or attempted to appease dear old Uncle Sam in order to avoid paying a higher standard sum in taxes. He didn't have to, since taxes had been mercifully cut for almost the last decade so that he didn't have to go the false charitable route. He smirked. Nathan would probably nag him even more if he had.

He half-toyed with the idea of setting up his own charity—the Hockley Hall of Music—where the sons and daughters of both the rich and poor could learn to play whatever instrument that came naturally, though preferably the piano. He would perhaps even outshine Rockefeller and Carnegie's efforts, since he, at least, had a true appreciation for the art. It was a consideration, at least, since he had a few hundred thousand to spare. It was almost a shame that Nathan wouldn't be able to roll in his grave, although Cal would have the pleasure of tormenting the unappeasable bastard on a daily basis with his so-called charity. He was almost inclined to do it, as he again thought of Rockefeller and the conversation they'd had.

Cal inwardly scowled at the exchange. For although Rockefeller had surely expressed genuine concern for Cal's wellbeing, the old man still retained a most morbid curiosity about the whole affair nonetheless. Having his grandson's presence there—even if he was the damned proprietor of the household—hadn't helped matters, either, since Cal found himself attempting to appease both men, while trying to divert their attention away from himself. It had taken almost everything within him not to go for Nelson Rockefeller's throat, when the bug-eyed prick had laconically mentioned Charlotte's beauty in passing. The man had clearly shown an interest in her that was far more than was considered appropriate, as Cal swore that he caught an obvious leer in the man's otherwise composed countenance.

Nelson Rockefeller would be dead before he approached Charlotte again, although the man had yet to know that. From all the rumblings Cal had heard from the Philadelphia society's rumor mill, the worm was currently pursuing the granddaughter of George Roberts, the former president of the Pennsylvania Railroad. Cal hadn't known the latter personally, but he was sure the man would share his sentiments regarding Rockefeller's bastard of a grandson carousing about with his much beloved granddaughter. If a marriage ever came of it, Cal was certain it would end in divorce. Not that he cared for the young woman in question; his only concern remained with Charlotte being kept away from that pernicious little prick, which he would ensure. One way or another.

He looked down at his cigarette, and took in a final breath of its nebulous contents before crushing it in the ashtray, all thoughts of the Rockefeller family dynasty gone with the track which led from a distant Pittsburgh. He glanced out the window, at the dark countryside.

The train would stop in Newport News, just before dawn. He methodically looked down and checked his pocket watch. He had another hour before the train made its final stop. It was enough time for him to find a suitable shelter from the sun until then. He'd already set up a room in a hotel for his arrival there, and would make the last forty miles to Virginia Beach by car. He was half-tempted to go by other means, but had no wish to draw unnecessary attention to himself, especially if this Cayce fellow could indeed cure him. He would certainly be in need of an automated means of transportation then.

Though, as he presently considered it, it probably would have been easier to have flown, although Cal had little faith in aviation, and flights were dangerous at night. The industry was still in its nascent beginnings, although Cal could well see airplanes eventually undermining the railroad industry, notwithstanding the fact that trains were still infinitely superior both in speed and assurance in getting people from one place to another. It was only a matter of time, he was sure, before commercial flights became the standard way of transportation. But not now. For the present, he still had one luxury of the past to hold onto, and perhaps another, if this alleged prophet could do anything for him.

He still had his doubts about the man, having naturally disregarded everything attesting to the contrary. His skepticism would remain until Cayce himself proved his so-called talents otherwise in front him. He was in no mood for parlor tricks—not for the amount of time and money he'd already placed into this whole charade. If anything, he would prove the man a fraud, although he was loath to dirty his hands in revealing his brief association with one of infamy. It was an old habit of his, perhaps, inducted by Nathan, but it had remained with him all the same.

For all these years, he still performed and executed the same skills and tactics of his father, carrying out the bastard's whims, even though he thoroughly despised adhering to Nathan's iron will. It was a habit he couldn't break himself of—not completely, perhaps never completely—although his defiance of such oddly shown through in his riding on a train, seeking out the advice of a man Nathan would be scorned to know existed.

In a way, he was liberating himself, although his doubts remained, a glaring obstacle, in the face of his own, dark uncertainty. He looked again at his pocket watch, the tiny black arms setting him deep in thought. He'd had it since he'd attended Harvard—a gift from his maternal grandfather, who died not long after—as it had remained with him since, having survived the sinking and his recent brush with death. The pocket watch had held up rather well, all things considered, just as another object in his possession had.

Without another thought, he pulled the engagement ring from his pocket and set it on the table. Setting the pocket watch aside, he took the ring in hand, absently spinning it between his fingers, its centripetal motions thrumming lightly against the heavy silence. He spun it in an almost mechanical repetition, a veritable, makeshift coin that consoled him for the final part of his journey. He glanced at the large diamond in its center, supported by two smaller ones on each side, the three stones almost seeming to meld into one as he continued its spinning.

He stared at it, apathetically. It had been a costly thing. Even his mother's ring had never been able to rival its ostentatious grandeur, nor his once-fiancée that she would never know. He'd purchased it on one of his father's business trips to Chicago, although it had originally come from Paris; and before that, out of some godforsaken mine in Africa, although Cal never cared to learn of its true origins. It mattered little, anyhow, since the ring itself had been only a means to acquire the heiress to a fabled fortune.

He barely acknowledged an ever-smiling James, who expressed his wonder of the stone Cal held in passive disinterest, as he did the customary routine of seeing to Cal's baggage. He only gave the young man a vague nod of recognition, as he half-heartedly voiced his instructions for one of the other porters to take his luggage once the train stopped, for so lost he was in his dark ruminations of a past that haunted him that he hardly noticed how close he was to his destination.

He didn't even look up to notice James' concern, even when the young man placed a large cup of steaming black coffee in front of him—something, that one of the train's waiters should have done hours ago—and wished him a pleasant journey.

Cal stilled in his movements, the sincerity in the porter's words almost shocking him, for the young man actually _meant_ it, as he expected nothing of Cal in return. It was more than any of his family—save for Charlotte, naturally—had given him, when he revealed that he would leave for this unexplained trip to a place he'd never been. Marcus had wished him well, although the exchange between father and son had been awkward at best. Celia had afforded him a perfunctory embrace, while Charlotte had given him a tearful smile and a kiss on the cheek. Alexander had made himself scarce in wishing him well, as his other children had watched him depart from the platform, a formal farewell, but a farewell nonetheless. He'd barely thought of them since, trusting that his staff would see to their needs.

Which they would do, as per the requirements of their profession.

It was with this consideration that Cal turned to James, catching his carefree smile, and almost wished he was as free of the world and its expectations as this young man standing before him. He truly envied James and his youth, but no less handed him an undisclosed tip. "And keep to that musical interest of yours, James," he expressed as a thoughtful reflection, forgoing the customary moniker of calling him _George_ that so many had given staff of the Pullman line, as he wished the porter well in the world, to which James gratefully reciprocated.

"Thank you, Mr. Hockley, sir. You can be sure I will. That trumpet of mine is one of the few things that'll make me get up of a morning," he said, and blindly placed the money in his dark uniform's coat pocket, unaware of the amount his patron had given him.

Cal inclined his head, watching James take his leave, and nearly grinned when he heard the young man gasp in startled surprise when he entered the next car and looked down at the generous tip. He didn't have to see the look of disbelief on the young man's face as he returned to his diversions and continued to spin Rose's engagement ring between his fingertips, his gaze never leaving the triumvirate of cold, unfeeling stones, even as the gasps of uninhibited surprise he so clearly heard from the train's segregated staff from the other end of the train reflected James' own when he showed them his tip, and of the uncharacteristic satisfaction Cal derived from that one, languid act of selfless generosity.

…

His stay in Newport News had been greeted with rain and a dull overcast, and yet, even though he was presently enclosed in the claustrophobic space of his hotel room, he'd never felt so liberated from the confining restraints he'd endured at the mill. He didn't feel the pressing need to retreat into his office, nor the dread he inwardly suppressed when confronting his overbearing father. The necessity in departing from his otherwise monotonous life had given him a temporary reprieve, to simply enjoy a life he'd once so freely exerted with a suave smile and a quick flick of his gloved fingertips. Had that been so long ago? It almost felt like it from another lifetime entirely.

Dismissing the thought, he took in his surroundings, and noted how solitary his lodgings indubitably were.

The Warwick Hotel was adequate enough, although he would have rather much preferred to have stayed at the newly furnished Cavalier instead. Circumstances with timing, however, had forced him—or rather, his secretary—to make reservations in Newport News instead of Virginia Beach. He made a face. In his long-traveled years, he had to confess that he hadn't the pleasure of visiting such an off-to-the-side place as where this so-called seer, Mr. Cayce, resided, although it had, over the years, regaled many of his acquaintance with its seaside charm and quaint summer cottages.

It was of little consequence, however, since he couldn't afford to enjoy its sun-swept sights personally. He'd closed the curtains to those gilded pleasures, denying himself the pain in greeting the dawn for another day. The changeable afternoon, which had exchanged rain for brilliant, blinding sunshine, was drawing to a close and evening would soon set in, the last, golden remnants of his torment slipping away over a listless, watery horizon. He could hear it, crashing against the sand, even from this distance as it called to him, as if beckoning him to join it in its cold, relentless waves.

Closing his eyes, he listened to its maritime song. Perhaps it was the same water that inundated the _Titanic_ and sent over fifteen hundred people into oblivion that night, as the vast and terrible Atlantic had claimed so many lives for as long as man traveled across its taciturn waves. It had almost claimed him that night as well, although the sheer force of willpower he so naturally exerted from surviving Nathan's disciplinary illustrations had prevented from succumbing to a pauper's death. And yet, he wondered, if only for a moment, whether it could claim him as he was now. He no longer had the need to breathe, and he was now impervious to the cold. He could, perhaps, very well outlast the sea itself, as well as everything else this lackluster world had to offer.

He inwardly glowered, his eyes opening languidly to such a dull and unimpressive prospect. Everything seemed rather unimpressive at the moment, if he were to be perfectly honest. Even his upcoming meeting, albeit having the slightest trace of intrigue, did little to quell the abject tedium he so often felt, his affliction's promising enhancements be damned. He muttered an unpleasant curse, and reached in his pocket for another cigarette. It was one of his last. Damn. He'd smoked almost a case already, having failed to abstain from inserting one after another when these dark moments of pointless self-reflection afflicted him.

Breathing in the intoxicating fumes of his cigarette, he thought of what momentary madness had possessed him in calling Cayce in the first place. Forced actions of the previous week compelled him to recall the conversation in its entirety, when that doddering fool of an operator finally put him through, to yet another fool, although this one was very much a harpy, bitching at him for calling at so late an hour.

"_Hello, is this the residence of Mr. Edgar Cayce? Yes, I'll hold,"_ he'd had the gentlemanly courtesy to say to the hateful witch, and paused for a moment before a tired, groggy voice on the other line answered. "_Yes, Mr. Cayce? I know, I know. I apologize for the late hour, but this is a matter of true importance. My name is Caledon Hockley—yes, the steel owner in Pittsburgh. Look, I've heard that you've aided quite a few of my colleagues in the past. No, none of them gave me your number; I'm not interested in their personal affairs, only my own. Yes, yes, of course, I'm sure that many have said that to you before, but that isn't my intent. As you see, Mr. Cayce, I've heard of your talents; that is why I decided to contact you. I understand that."_

Cal's eyes darkened. He had said that in a moment of doubtless bewilderment, even though his calm voice held a note of frustration. _"Yes, of course, but this has nothing to do with my finances. I'm not interested in horse racing, either. No, Mr. Cayce, what I want is disproportionate to that."_

They had continued to talk for a few minutes, as Cal had often found himself giving one-word answers, or going into long explanations until an understanding was finally reached. A brief pause had finally fallen between the two men, as it had been Cal who, catching sight of something at the end of the desk, reached for his spectacles, a necessity he'd once happily discarded. He recalled having held them as he would a precious diamond, and he sighed, knowing what it was he truly wanted. He'd acknowledged the patiently awaiting voice at the other end of the line, having looked once more at the spectacles and decided his fate:

"_I would like to ask for a reading." _

And that had been where the two ended their long distance association until Cal sent a telegram to Cayce, informing him that he would be on time for their private session the following week. And he would keep his word. Far be it that a man of his status and influence fail to keep his word, even to who he was sure was a crackpot phony whose disinterest in fame and fortune still puzzled his overruling skepticism. _But then, if the dead and creatures like that slut exist…_

Why the hell wouldn't so-called sleeping prophets exist, as well?

It wasn't as if they hadn't existed centuries before, since the bible boasted an onslaught of them. He could recall a few names, but his laxity in remaining thoroughly devout to something beyond himself and Hockley Steel had dulled his interest over the years until he'd been completely numbed to the idea of an everlasting God and a promise of paradise after living a selfless existence in a world based solely on the material. Prophets were even less of a concern for him, since he'd no need for their end-of-the-world biblical nonsense. Though now, when he found himself struck blindsided by that which he couldn't answer through his own, logical reasoning, perhaps having audience with someone of authority on such matters would shatter that long-held, agnostic disbelief.

He gave the half-consumed cigarette in his hand a brief glance before crushing the last of it into a crystal ashtray that held its former companions. He ignored the slight hiss the cigarette exuded, absentmindedly wiping the ashy residue from his fingers, before returning to his present concern. The receding sunlight on the ceiling reemphasized his silent dilemma as he vaguely considered his attire. He grimaced at the smart, light-gray ensemble, and was half-inclined to disregard the meeting entirely until he saw the nothingness staring back at him in a vanity mirror out of the corner of his eye. Damn it. This was not something that could be ignored. Nor disregarded, it seemed.

He glowered at the half-assed consideration. To hell with his disinclination. He'd already set the mill back a week with his absence; had pretty much made his schedule a living hell when he returned home. He was damn well going to see this man who may or may not have the answers he sought, and then he would decide if it was worth the trip in coming.

Somehow, however, he doubted it would be.

But then, wasn't life so full of fucking surprises?

He considered as much when he felt the last rays of the sun set behind a dark ocean current, carried the very idea with him when he accepted the keys to a 1927 black Mercedes Benz and took the wheel without a chauffeur, while his thoughts remained entirely on the irony of it as he covered the forty-odd-mile distance with seeming-less ease, the last of his cigarettes in his hand, and a caustic smirk on his heartless face. He laughed, idly wondering whether his present quarry had ever met one with his affliction. He somehow doubted it, though it would be somewhat entertaining to question him under a hypnotic trance all the same.

Yes, either way, his meeting with the world's greatest seer of the twentieth century would be quite definitive indeed.

…

It was well after two in the morning when he found himself standing in front of the quaint, small home of Edgar Cayce. He'd noticed a newly-established hospital on the way into town, realizing that Cayce was somehow connected with it. Was he also a certified doctor? Frowning at the possibility, he then took in Cayce's personal residence. It was a simple establishment, as those searing dark eyes did little to hide the disgust he inwardly felt for such an almost commonplace foundation. He snorted in apparent revulsion. For the man to have achieved world acclaim, and held the backing of so many of the world's social elite, he certainly didn't bask in the riches he'd obtained from them. Cal instinctively clutched the briefcase he held all the more securely as he surveyed his surroundings.

Even with a property close to the ocean, Cayce's residence did little to garner the so-called renown he had attained over the course of his profound career. Cal could hardly fathom it, as he ignored the waves crashing on the shore behind him, his only concern resting, somewhere, in the plain little domicile in front of him. All he had to do was make his presence known. And he dreaded it, with every single goddamned fiber of his being. He inwardly cursed himself and ill-begotten luck, but proceeded toward his destination, each step defining that loathsome march that had inevitably been inspired by some offhand conversation at dinner. The reality in and of itself was almost laughable, while he fought himself in turning around and catching the next train to Pittsburgh.

Swallowing the last ounce of his pride, however, he raised his right hand and knocked on the door, all thoughts and obscenities gone the moment a woman in a scarlet robe with critical brown eyes met his own.

"I presume you must be Mr. Hockley," she said it in a way that was far from welcoming. "I'm Gertrude, Edgar's wife."

Cal offered her a false smile, and kindly refrained from telling her to go to hell, since the lady in question did deserve some modicum of respect, especially since he'd clearly roused her from bed. He only inclined his head, noting her bedraggled state as he waited for her to invite him in. He only had to wait for the better half of a moment as the woman was clearly hesitant to allow him in.

"I apologize for the late hour," he replied in an attempt to bolster a semblance of affability from the evident gap between them. Giving her his coat, but keeping the briefcase, he took in her tired face that showed the same signs of middle age as his did, but found a certain beauty that most women in his own society sadly lacked. Common-born or not, in her day, this woman had been quite a beauty, with her dark hair and equally dark eyes to match.

Her stern face softened a fraction. "My husband expected you a little sooner, Mr. Hockley," she admitted, before inviting him in and asking he take a seat on a nearby sofa. "Would you care for some coffee while you wait for him? I'm afraid that Edgar is still asleep at the moment."

It was a peace offering, and was one in which Cal openly accepted as what she didn't say regarding her husband was the simple fact that one of his earlier readings had drained him to the point of exhaustion. Cal had read her worry and concern as clear as day, as she tried to lighten the mood by making coffee and seeing to her husband's needs. He forewent wishing the woman to hell entirely as he watched her take command of her household without having any need for a servant. Yes, he thought as he watched her in silence, this woman deserved his respect, perhaps even more so than those nitpicking harpies who expected it of him at every gathering and social function.

He accepted the coffee she offered him in its plain white cup as he waited for the mysterious Edgar Cayce to arrive, drinking its bland contents slowly and pretending it was the best cup he'd had since hell had frozen over. She deserved that compliment at least, since it would have been a damn fine cup of coffee if he still had a taste for it.

He was halfway finished with it as he quietly took in the sitting room's simple, yet elegant, furnishings when he sensed another presence in the room, as a man around his age stood at its threshold. Cal gave him a cursory glance, having the grace to acknowledge the long-awaited Edgar Cayce with a silent nod.

"Mr. Hockley," the latter said in a genial way that expressed the utmost sincerity in such a greeting as he offered forth a welcoming hand, "I'm so glad you could make it. I almost feared that you were unable to make it."

Abandoning the coffee, Cal did what was expected of him as he crossed the room and accepted the offered hand in greeting—and felt the same amount of strength and energy as he would from any other handshake of his association. He had expected no less, as he examined a pair of clear blue eyes who stood eye-level with his. From all perceptions that his mind had mentally sketched, he never imagined the man able to match him in height, as those perspective eyes bore into his and pierced through every dark thought and hidden secret he possessed. It was almost enough for Cal to withdraw his hand as he broke eye contact with the so-called Sleeping Prophet.

Regaining a shred of his composure, he returned his gaze to Cayce, his pride refusing to abate in the wake of some ridiculous fear. He looked at the man, critically. So, this was the man who held all the answers. He certainly, as hell, didn't look like much, now that he considered him. There was no golden aura of light surrounding him, no halo, or some other mystically absurd attachment to the divine. There was only a man, no more than a few years older than he, standing, his middle-aged features as tired and as drawn as his own. Some prophet. But then, as he was wont to admit, appearances were oftentimes deceiving, as that slut in the streets had made that abundantly clear. Goddamn it all. He'd come this far already, why not drive the dagger home, and get it over and done with? He'd never been a practitioner in vacillation, and he wasn't about to begin now, with such an idiotic approach to postpone the inevitable.

Straightening himself to his full height, he eyed Cayce with a note of distaste. "I apologize for the hour, but circumstances were unable to permit me to come during your usual hours. I must also request that we make this session brief, since I must return to my lodgings before dawn."

If Cayce was surprised by the statement he didn't show it, as he only nodded his head, accepting Cal's request without question. "I understand you are a private man, Mr. Hockley, and wish to keep this session between us."

"Then we have an understanding? There is to be no one but us in that room," he said, a casual hand acknowledging where Cayce's office resided. _I don't want this written down in one of your transcripts_, his stern expression translated silently.

"Edgar!" Gertrude bolted from her seat before her husband could say anything. She looked at him directly, and then at Cal, before she looked again at Cayce, a look of worry clearly written on her paling features. "Either I'm present, or one of the boys. You are never alone. You don't do that, not after what happened in Hopkinsville! We don't have to have Gladys, if you don't want this transcribed, but I want to be present to ask the questions."

"Gertrude," Cayce said calmly, though it was more so a direct line of persuasion, "I won't need someone there with me for this case." He gave Cal a look that expressed a trust beyond his usual cases, and he smiled at his wife. "This is a case that's to remain un-transcribed and unknown to anyone, save for Mr. Hockley himself. I'll be fine," he reassured her, taking one of her hands into his own.

"But, Edgar," she countered until finally giving in, however reluctantly. She bit the lower half of her lip in a nervous gesture as she looked at Cal, a hint of indecision in her dark-eyed gaze.

Cal gave her a reassuring look; the only shred of kindness he'd afford her. He couldn't care less for her sentiments otherwise, as a deep stab of jealousy overtook his better judgment. Why couldn't he have had a wife who expressed genuine concern for _his_ wellbeing? Felicia certainly wouldn't have minded it if he'd failed to come home—not if the impeding promise of an inheritance of the family fortune was involved—because of some unforeseen and most _unfortunate_ accident at the mill. He mentally chastised himself. But that was neither here nor there, and he abruptly cast the bitter reminder of his former whore of a wife aside. Better to think of the real reason why he was here, and abstain from being distracted further.

And he did.

As both he and Cayce adjourned to the latter's office.

He took a seat opposite of Cayce as the seer quietly shut the door from behind, effectively locking it. A moment passed as the latter took a seat on a long green couch—which, Cal was sure, had seen better days—and began to take off his shoes. Cal considered him, an odd practice, but one he wasn't about to openly question. No—not when Cayce gave him that pointed stare, as if he knew something that no longer person with a lick of sense knew, or could even fathom. Those perceptive blue eyes were enough to sever the silent contact between them as Cal sensed that they were quite alone, and, mercifully, without an audience eavesdropping outside the door.

"You'll have to forgive me for earlier, Mr. Hockley," Cayce said in lieu of an apology, shrugging his shoulders in an almost carefree way of emphasis. "My wife worries about me, whenever I do these readings at times, especially when I ask that she not be present to ask questions. It's the way I do things, you see. There was a bit of…trouble, if you will, when I first started doing what it is that I do. There would be those who sought personal gain from the readings, like slipping in a question about who would win the next horse race. They'd profit, certainly, but the consequences were heavily reflected upon me, to the point where the readings would be so painfully intense that I'd be ill for days. I'd actually quit for awhile, as I returned to a life in photography."

Cal eyed him incredulously, genuine curiosity overtaking his present skepticism. "Photography?" he reiterated blankly, as if at a loss. "Then why—"

"I wanted nothing more to do with it," Cayce answered him. "Not when I had to deal with the physical pain of people only caring about themselves. I didn't see a point in continuing, not until my eldest son injured one of his eyes; I couldn't just simply turn my own son away when he asked for a reading, not when I knew he needed one. And so, for him, I went into a trance, and prescribed what he needed to cure his eye. My son can see to this day, and I realized then that I _could_ help people in need. I feel the same with you, since I know that you didn't come here with a concern for money." _You came for another reason entirely_, his eyes seemed to say.

The steel mill owner hesitated, albeit briefly. "Any person of sense could deduce that," he returned dryly, and set the briefcase down beside of him.

Cayce only smiled, a long strand of iron-gray hair sliding over the crest of his forehead. "You're one of the skeptical ones, I see," he remarked, wholly amused. "That's quite all right. You don't have to worry about me charging you if my reading doesn't convince you; I do this kind of thing for free, Mr. Hockley. You won't lose anything, other than your time here."

"Only a wasted train ticket," Cal cut in dryly, and both men derived a sense of amusement in their own way. But then, Cal became serious once again, an idle curiosity brimming to the surface of his thoughts. "I noticed a hospital on the way over. I didn't realize that you were also adept in the field of medicine."

The Sleeping Prophet gave him an unabashed smile. "I'm no certified doctor; I'll admit that, Mr. Hockley, as I consider myself more of a homeopathic sort. As for the hospital, I've wanted to set one up for years, to help people in any way I possibly could. A good friend has…helped me realize that dream. The hospital opened a little over a month ago."

And, undoubtedly, that dream had taken a hell of a lot of money to make into reality, and then some. Cayce's _friend_ must've been very well-off indeed, to fund such a nonsensical thing. _The fool will be broke in two years if he continues on this futile path_, Cal mused apathetically. Cayce didn't have to say it, but whoever this so-called friend was, had paid a pretty penny for the creation of that monstrous structure. Hell, it almost rivaled his tallest mill. He couldn't imagine the price tag that came with its construction. Not that he cared, of course, but the thought of it was still there nonetheless.

They lapsed into silence soon after as Cayce made to lie down on the couch, something in which Cal found strikingly odd until the man in question turned to him. "There won't be a transcript of this session," he stated matter-of-factly. "However, you'll be the one who'll have to conduct the questions you want answered all on your own. I won't remember anything when I come to, so you'll need to take what you can from whatever it is I say."

Cal nodded his head in understanding.

And Cayce found himself smile again. "Good. Now that we have all of that settled, I'll go ahead in inducing the trance. One thing, though, you'll have to watch me. When my eyes begin to flutter, that's when you'll need to ask your questions, otherwise I might very well fall asleep on you," he added with a touch of humor.

"Well, we can't have that, now can we?" Cal returned laconically as he heard Cayce laugh, and watched the man close his eyes. He sat quietly, catching the rhythmic sound of the man's steady breathing, those dark eyes trained on the almost still-like figure, waiting for the moment that Cayce advised him of. He didn't have to wait long, either. No more than five minutes had passed before Cayce's eyes went from being completely reposed to undeniably wavering, as it was then Cal asked his first question:

"What must I do to rid myself of this goddamned affliction?"

A moment of silence passed, and then another, before Cal began to wonder if he had posed the question too late. _Perhaps he's already asleep_, he thought, turning his eyes to Cayce's closed ones. No. The man's eyes were still doing that unnerving jerking. He couldn't be asleep. But the silence remained. Cal shook his head. Perhaps he hadn't phrased his question correctly; it had certainly been vague, even to his own ears.

He almost moved to rephrase it before he his attempt was rendered forever silent as Cayce spoke:

"_The answer the entity desires is one in which that can neither be altered nor undone. No cure, by herb or the hand of man, can lift that which has been set forth upon the entity; only a final death can come in the form of release. Then, and only then, will the entity find that which he once believed forever lost."_

Cal glowered darkly at Cayce's strange method of speaking as the man seemed to disconnect himself entirely from the fickle attachments of mankind. He couldn't understand it. The voice was Cayce's, yet not. The schematics behind Cayce's technique were of little importance, since he got the answer he sought, although it certainly wasn't the one he wanted. But then, could he have expected any less? He knew it, had known it all along. And a miracle cure certainly wouldn't come to him on a silver platter from the back of his ass. Leaving this world forever was apparently the only option, if Cayce could be believed, and Cal wasn't in the mood of taking the gentleman's way out tonight. No, there were a few things he had left to do before even considering such an option, as a few questions remained.

Looking at the man lying adjacent from him once more, Cal asked another question, his fractured composure returning in the form of a deadly glare. The words were out of his mouth before he could even consider the repercussions from them; but then, he no longer cared if another, unconscious or not, knew one of his most private thoughts. What did it matter, anyhow, since most of his entire social set already suspected that which he now posed to a man, unaware of a private war that had been waged almost a generation before?

Cayce shifted in his fixed position, a grimace crossing his otherwise composed countenance. _"The entity's question is as labyrinthine as the entity himself, but, yes, the course of life would have been different if the circumstances in which the entity had been placed had been as equally and as invariably different. The entity would not be here, but in his place of origin, although the outcome in which the entity desires would have, perhaps, ended in the same manner as his current life._"

The seer's words drifted off into a cold, irresolute silence, as Cal, his stern face darkening in bitter resignation, accepted it, along with its cutting indifference to his plight. Cayce's answer was as vague as it is cryptic, but Cal drew enough from it to know what he had known already. _Nothing_ would have changed that night. Not his wrath, nor his conduct, or even the slim chance the she might've, somehow, survived. Either way, it would have boiled down to the same, useless, miserable fucking conclusion, and there was not a goddamned thing he could've done about any of it.

And, taking that into account, he accepted it, although it grieved his pride. Nevertheless, he regained his composure and made to wake Cayce. He inwardly cursed himself for even coming, but he had a debt to pay, no matter the price wagered. Might as well have the fool conscious before he left; he'd gotten the answers he sought, and it was time to give the devil his due.

"I'm finished with my questions," he said in a cold tone of finality as Cayce stirred.

The latter opened his eyes in obvious confusion. "Really? It doesn't seem that I was out for more than a few minutes. You must've been very selective in your questions, Mr. Hockley."

Cal didn't smile. "I have what I came for," he answered in a clipped voice. "Now, I believe it's time I depart." He looked down at his pocket watch. It was a little past four, and there was plenty of time to get back to the Warwick, but he could not find himself departing from this ramshackle place soon enough.

Cayce, however, gave him a look of genuine concern. "Mr. Hockley," he began, knowing precious little of this man, but enough to care about this man's fate, "I don't know what advice I gave you, but I hope that you may find some sort of satisfying outcome from it."

The steel mill owner said nothing, although the look he gave Cayce was anything but hopeful. Both men were soon greeted by Gertrude, her tired eyes expressing a hint of relief to see her husband only lacking a good night's sleep. She bid Cal a kind farewell, to which Cal had granted her a gentlemanly nod of acknowledgement, before leaving the men alone once more.

Neither said a word for the better part of five minutes, a tension existing between them as both attempted to give the other leave to draw first. Cayce, not one to leave one in the darkness of his thoughts for too long, was the first to break that impenetrable stalemate.

"Mr. Hockley, I know for a fact that whatever reading I gave you was not one to be given anyone satisfactorily," he said calmly, "but whatever it was, I am sure that, should you decide to heed that advice, then the outcome may be better than what you initially believed."

_If you only knew what it is was that you spoke, then you wouldn't express such stupid, incomprehensible, thoughtless absurdities_, Cal thought bitterly, as he gave Cayce a forced smile. He and Cayce came from two different worlds; and although the man was almost as poor as a church mouse, he had been greatly compensated in having people who actually gave a damn about whether he lived and breathed. He had Charlotte, and he supposed his other children, fickle and self-absorbed as they were, but Cayce, it seemed, had been richer in the regard of family. Undoubtedly, the man's sons were as devoted to him as his wife. If only he could say the same for himself, along with so many of his contemporaries and their children.

Ultimately, however, he found that it mattered little, since he couldn't change his own life's miserable outcome. It was something that had to be accepted, which he had. And so, coming to the collective, last, few, awkward moments he would be forced to endure Cayce's presence, he decided to make the most of that time, since he would damned if he ever returned to this backwater vision of paradise ever again.

He turned to Cayce, giving him a slight nod, before moving to retrieve his coat, which Gertrude had lain out for him. "I thank you for your services, Mr. Cayce," he said, a mechanical response, as he bent down to pick up the briefcase, and automatically reached into his coat pocket for a few hundred dollar bills. He stopped in mid-action when he heard Cayce speak.

"I know you're disappointed, and have no intention to return, or even believe anything successful came out of the reading," he posed quietly, watching as Cal turned to face him, that calm visage masking the discontent brimming underneath its cold exterior. Cayce inwardly sighed. "But trust me on this when I say that, whatever was said, it can turn out to make all the difference if you simply _heed_ its suggestion."

That calm façade cracked considerably under Cayce's advice. "I might not have had the mind to transcribe what was said, but I can assure you: that what you—or whoever the hell was talking through you—said nothing that I didn't know already. There was no advice for me to heed, and none that I could surmise from it to make my life any better than its current state." _And it's just as well, since life isn't all fucking sunshine and roses_. His hand then shifted into the deep counters of his coat pocket, grasping a few hundred dollar bills that lay securely between his fingertips. He looked at Cayce, that withdrawn gaze pinning the man in place. "And yet, be that as it may, you have helped me understand that I've done all I can. I thank you for your time, Mr. Cayce," he said, and made to pull out the payment hand before Cayce stopped him once again with his untimely sagely advice.

"Does the name Rose hold any meaning for you? Or even a necklace with a large, dark-blue stone in its center?" he broached, genuinely curious.

The lifeless heart in Cal's chest nearly plummeted to the pit of his stomach. A long moment passed between the two men before he finally spoke. "And how would you know that? I don't recall ever mentioning that name to you." He didn't dare enquire over the latter half of Cayce's question. How the fuck did he know about _that_?

Cayce hesitated, noting the barely contained rage in his client's eyes. "It was a name that kept coming up when I was in the trance. I have no idea what it means, but it must be of some importance to you, especially if I am able to retain its significance in my conscious state. The name and necklace appear to be connected, though."

Cal eyed him critically, as if trying to discern any hint of deception on Cayce's behalf. It was common knowledge that he was engaged to a Miss Rose DeWitt Bukater of the Philadelphia social set; anyone could have dredged up that little golden nugget of knowledge from his past. But to question him about the Heart of the Ocean, especially since only a handful of people knew about it, and most of those in question were irrefutably dead, added to the fact that the claim Nathan had made to the insurance company after its loss had been kept under the strictest of confidence between the two parties involved, no one, save he alone, was alive to know such a scandalous thing. And, as such, how could this man, who hailed from the backwater reaches of Appalachia, even _suggest_ a hint of such knowledge, unless he had ties, far grander than Cal ever dared imagine?

"It doesn't matter, despite what you might say to the contrary," Cal found himself say at last. Let the nosy bastard enquire all that he wanted to about Rose and the diamond; he wouldn't give a shred of truth about either, even under the most unbearable of torture. As there were some things too private, too painful to share among almost perfect strangers.

The seer moved to contest, however, but seemed to think better of it. "It is as you say, Mr. Hockley," Cayce conceded reluctantly. "Though whatever happened, I believe there is more to it than meets the eye. I shall trust in your better judgment on the matter, though, since a lot of my patients tend to prove the same to me, time and again."

Cal considered Cayce's thoughtful words and imagined a sea of indebted faces that he himself would never see, before noting, to his dismay, the man's infectious smile. For all his meddling and overall futility, Cal begrudgingly found himself impressed by the man's tenacity in helping those from whom he could ultimately profit, yet refused on a matter of conscience. None of his own, personal acquaintance could ever dare fathom such inherent goodness, especially when one such as the esteemed Edgar Cayce took him bravely by the arm, a consoling look of sympathy in those knowledgeable blue eyes, as he said, "I know that you may doubt the reading now, but I have a feeling that you'll find whatever it is that you're searching for. You just have to set your mind to finding it, since you seem to be a man who makes his own luck."

The money in Cal's pocket dropped back into its confined sanctuary, a change of course in his secret intent, as he took a pen and a sheet of paper from his other pocket. He wrote something down on the note, which he held against the palm of his hand, before returning the pen to its rightful place, the sheet of paper, however, remaining in hand. Glancing down at the briefcase that he held, he set it upon a nearby table, before placing the note into it, and closed it once again. He looked at Cayce, almost as an afterthought, his dark eyes meeting the Sleeping Prophet's. "For your trouble," was all he said, acknowledging the briefcase, with its closed, cold, leather-bound exterior.

Cayce frowned in confusion, but said nothing of it as he instead saw Cal to the door. Not a word was exchanged during the interim until Cal passed through the home's simple threshold, a hint of dawn cresting on the distant horizon. Goddamn it. If he left now, then he would be back in time to escape the morning sunlight. And yet, he felt Cayce's eyes on his back. Turning, he made to answer whatever question the man had before leaving Virginia Beach in the dusty remnants of his fading interest.

It was not a question, but a warning that Cayce posed, however. "You didn't come here for money," he said, almost eerily. "And yet, it is something of a monitorial nature that I wish to impart to you before you leave."

Cal waited impatiently as Cayce moved to collect his thoughts. "You don't need to impart anything to me. I'm perfectly fine financially."

Cayce laughed at that, although the dry, brittle sound of it secretly unnerved Cal. "You misunderstand, Mr. Hockley. I wasn't suggesting what is so at present, but in the passage of time. You see, a few weeks ago, I gave an inquisitive stock broker from New York a reading on the world and its affairs in the financial sector, and what was suggested in the reading was indeed most dire. I'd be careful with the stock market, Mr. Hockley. I wouldn't too much faith in it—not for awhile, anyway—if I were you, since I don't know for certain what's coming, but I've a feeling that it's something that will change this country and how it views finances forever."

"I'll…consider it," Cal replied, although both men knew well enough that he would disregard the warning entirely. For a man like Cal who was already near the end of his rope, it didn't seem to matter anyway, since he lived from one day to the next. Planning ahead for a future that might never come into fruition was entirely out of the question, as a great psychic like Edgar Cayce should've known all too well before advising him with his psychic babble and end of the world declarations.

The two parted on amicable terms, although Cayce knew he would never see the likes of the great Hockley Steel owner ever again—not in this life, at least—as the man before him returned to his world of wealth and privilege. For indeed, when he closed the door behind him, forever obscuring Cal's retreating figure cast against a harrowing black dawn, he returned to the quietude of his small foyer, where the briefcase lay, undisturbed, on the table. He saw his wife standing nearby, a puzzled look matching his as both considered the briefcase in silence.

A few minutes passed as husband and wife regarded the mysterious object until Cayce finally gave into his curiosity and opened it. A hastily written note lay atop of a wealth of hundred dollar bills, its elegant scrawl designating three distinct words: _For your hospital_…

…Along with a little over twenty-five thousand dollars in cash…

Gertrude placed a trembling hand to her mouth, barely muffling a startled cry as Cayce closed his eyes and shook his graying head in palpable disbelief.

He'd never asked Hockley for a single dime, but the man, in spite of his own disappointment tonight, had given an even greater kindness in return. He'd almost taken the form of an angel of mercy, as the much-needed funds would herewith go to the hospital as a private donation. Hockley's name would never be mentioned beyond this night, but the repercussions of his generosity would echo for years to come. Cayce only wished that Hockley realized that one day, as he also hoped, yet doubtlessly feared, the man would somehow fall victim to his own demise. Cayce hadn't said it, but, with the woman's name and the necklace, was also a pistol—a revolver in a desk drawer—that featured prominently in Cayce's waking thoughts. He hoped it was simply a stray vision of his and nothing more, but feared its prominence.

Cayce didn't know how long he stood there; Gertrude had returned to bed a while ago, and the briefcase, with all its contents, was once again closed, although his hands lay stiffly upon its enclosed surface. He must've stood there for an at least an hour, maybe longer, although it seemed like mere seconds had passed until the he felt the first strands of daylight fall upon his face and realized that his session with the evasively enigmatic Caledon Hockley would, although always kept a secret from everyone else, except the Lord God Almighty, remain the most profound yet heart wrenchingly disturbing case he would ever have.

He almost dreaded to see the newspaper headlines after that day.

…

**Author's Note: So sorry it's taken me this long to update. I've just been so busy lately, especially over the last few months. (Sighs.) But, yeah, I hope everyone enjoyed the chapter. I'm not completely happy with the way it turned out. It's certainly a bit different from the others, although it was rather fun taking Cal out of his natural surroundings, if only for a little while. I would love to have another chapter posted, sometime, by the end of this month, but we'll see how that goes with time and inspiration—both of which I just haven't had a lot of recently. :(**

**Over the summer, my family visited Savannah, and we went to the Roundhouse Railroad Museum there. James, along his customary position as a porter, were greatly inspired by the tour there, since men—particularly African American men—were in the service as porters and cooks on the Pullman line trains throughout the decades. I had no idea about the kind of life they'd led aboard, though to be where they worked, it's really something to both study and appreciate. Unfortunately, I could not find a lot of history about them online; though what I did find really opened up that perspective, which had been introduced on the tour.**

**Also, the history on Edgar Cayce should be accurate. The reading he mentioned at the end with the New York stock broker is from one of his actual readings, given March 6****th****, 1929. If I'm not mistaken, it's numbered 900-425, for anyone curious. I also tried to be as faithful and as accurate as I could when I framed Edgar and Gertrude Cayce. I'll also try to post a link to one of his photos in my author's bio. But, yeah, pretty cool guy, although his readings were rather freaky in the way that he worded him. Like Cal, I would be a little freaked out, too, if I heard someone speak the way Cayce did while in trance. O.0;**

**Cayce's unnamed benefactor for the hospital was a man named Morton Blumenthal, who was a New York stock broker. I'm not for sure if he was the same stock broker in the 900-425 reading, but he may well have been. Nevertheless, he was the primary patron of the establishment. The hospital began construction in 1927, and later opened in February 1929. It unfortunately closed its doors in 1931, in the midst of the Great Depression. It later became part of Edgar Cayce's Association for Research and Enlightenment (A.R.E.), and still stands to this day.**

**And, honestly, I would've had Cal hole up in the Cavalier Hotel, I really wanted to, but it just didn't seem feasible, with time and travel and everything. Also, the alleged haunting of that particular hotel didn't start until **_**after**_** the summer of 1929, where one of the guests fell to his death. It was deemed an accident, although it was later suspected to be a suicide, or even a murder. Either way, the Cavalier is supposed to be haunted, though not in Cal's time there, so no ghostly meetings in this chapter, although I wouldn't put it past the Warwick Hotel having some ghost stories of its own, since it predates the Cavalier by a good forty plus years.**

**Oh, and if this story took place in 1829, instead of 1929, then Staind's **_**Epiphany**_** music video would work perfectly for this chapter visually. I just watched it again, and realized how, in some sort of weird, screwed-up way, the tone seems to parallel with what's going on inside of Cal's head, especially with the symbolism of the white rose. There's that, and there also the whole Dracula/ghost thing going on, as well. I cannot recommend enough in watching it at least once.**

**And for those I could not PM:**

**Reviewer No. 27, and also No. 28! ;) Thanks so much for reading the last chapter, and also for your comments! I am so glad you've enjoyed Charlotte and Albert's little romance so far! They are rather cute together! :D I also like Marcus, too. I am honestly glad that he is different from the rest of his siblings. I believe that he and Charlotte are actually closer to one another, compared to Alexander and Celia, who seem rather self-absorbed and oblivious to everyone else but themselves. And I totally agree: that meal was indeed gross. It certainly gave off the effect Cal wanted, though. As for Cal meeting Rose…when he meets her is going to be a very, very tense moment between those two. I don't want to spoil anything, but let's just say that Rose will be as surprised as we'll undoubtedly be when Cal comes back into her life! I'm also delighted that you enjoy my history notes! I love seeing other writers include them; they can give a good deal of history that many aren't aware of.**

**Amanda, there is no need to apologize. Truly. I greatly appreciate your reviews, as they have encouraged me to become a better writer for this story. I am also happy that you like Albert; I simply love writing his character. I also plan for him to appear in the next chapter! As for Rose, she will appear very soon, I can promise that. And thank you, for your comments regarding Cal's obsessive nature. That is one thing I wanted to draw out in this story, and how his obsession with Rose over the years has, if in part, shaped him into a very warped figure fashioned by both an expectant, elite society as well as his own mental instability. And, like you, I want to see Cal become more violent than he has been in previous chapters, since he's been very restrained so far. I can assure you that he will become so, in due time. There's actually a certain point when he does; and once that happens, there's really no turning back after that point. But again, thank you so much for reading, and for your comments; I truly appreciate it!**

**And again, my eternal thanks to everyone for reading, reviewing, and PMing me. All of you compel me to continue with this story. Thanks again!**


	7. Chapter Seven: The Gentlemen's Way Out

Disclaimer: I do not own _Titanic_, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to James Cameron, Paramount Pictures, Twentieth Century Fox, and their respected owners.

Summary: March 1929. He has always possessed her, the claim on her made, long before either realized the consequences derived from it. For a man like Caledon Hockley was not one to give up that which he claimed so easily—not even from beyond the grave.

His Dark Possession

Chapter Seven

Of course, in the end, Cal didn't heed Edgar Cayce's warning of some impending, financial disaster that concerned the world, as well as his personal investments. As with so many of his contemporaries, the steel tycoon had been too heavily invested in the stock market to ever consider backing out in a time of great wealth and prosperity—especially on the word on some new age, doddering psychic whose selfless ambitions made Cal question if the man was even real, or simply a figment of his own, deluded imagination. For after all, prophets and seers, for all of their biblical finery, could be wrong in their foresight regarding a very vague and uncertain future in the world of stocks and shares.

That warning had been given seven months ago, and now, it seemed, Cayce's words of doom and destruction had finally come into fruition. Cal stared down at the letter he'd received that morning, and although his eyes remained fixed on its words filtered with both formality and apology, the letter itself remained perfectly incoherent to his otherwise disinterested awareness. He cared little for its existence, having already memorized each pathetically damning draft that some equally pathetic secretary had typed out on a moment's notice. Undoubtedly, many of his colleagues had received the same, although they, certainly, were undoubtedly far more shocked by the news of their empires collapsing than he.

He almost smirked at their shared misfortune, folding the letter that foretold the downfall of Hockley Steel, as he reached into the one of the bottom drawers of his desk and retrieved a cigar. In instinct, he would've lit a cigarette, but news such as this demanded a cigar for the occasion. With a faint _click_ of his lighter, he lit the cigar's tip and took in its absolving, latent fumes, blowing O-shaped rings into the air, simply for the hell of it. After all, it wasn't every day that a man of his standing could afford to lose well over a hundred million dollars, as well as over three-quarters of his entire wealth—all of which had been by virtue of his own folly.

And, naturally, Nathan had found out no sooner than later; and when he had, Cal knew there would be hell to pay. And there had been. As he presently relived every torturous moment of that disastrous confrontation.

…

"_Goddamn it, Caledon! How in the hell could you have allowed this to happen?"_ _a very wrathful Nathan Hockley demanded of his only son, circling Cal as a hyena would a decaying carcass._

_Cal forced himself not to roll his eyes. What a perfect beginning to a perfectly shitty day. How wonderful. He almost allowed himself to smile in the midst of Nathan's tirade, but remained wholly impassive to merely spite the man, that pale, chiseled face completely composed in the wake of the fallen titan of a father raging before him. He waited a few minutes, watching his father move about the office like a caged lion ready to pounce on him as he took in his sixth cup of coffee that morning and wondered how in the hell he'd ever considered going to the north mill. "I'm a businessman, Nathan, not a prophet," he finally said, pyramiding his long fingers over the rim of his cup. "Many have suffered from the same fate as I. It is the natural order of things, in the world of commerce, something in which I recall you once telling me."_

_Nathan colored at the insult, that sickly, papery pallor darkening to a dark-gray hue of decay. "Don't you dare suggest that this was my doing, Caledon," he seethed, all righteous indignation. "If I was still heading the company, none of this would've happened. I would've known _how_ to handle our investments, and not allow everything I'd worked so goddamned hard for to collapse around me." He cast Cal a cold, merciless glare. "You always were a disappointment," he muttered coldly. "It's a shame that I'd chosen that weak-willed sop of a woman to mother nothing but a failure, as I now wish that I had no son at all."_

_Nothing was said in response to Nathan's slight of his son's qualities or lack thereof, as Cal took in every word, curse, and name Nathan threw at him. He didn't even come to his dead mother's defense, when Nathan continued in his disparagement of her, for so disconnected he was to the entire scene in his office. He'd almost likened the whole thing to one of those god-awful Surrealist paintings: ugly and wholly lacking in any dedication of quality or thoughtful value. It had been a mistake in coming to the mill; he shouldn't have come at all, knowing well enough that Nathan would've heard one of the foremen muttering about the dark turn the stock market had taken. It had been a perfect storm in the making, setting it up for an inevitable confrontation that would leave one of them severely the worse for wear. _

_It hadn't occurred to Cal, however, that such would happen with Nathan's next blow to his already stagnant pride._

_The ghost of his father loomed before him, like a mounting presence, dark and ominous. Cal had barely paid him any heed, opting instead for a cigarette to block out Nathan's ranting, which made his progenitor even angrier. _

"_Don't you dare withdraw yourself from me," Nathan practically snapped. "You will listen to me, goddamn it! I'll not be ignored, not this time. Do you hear me, Caledon, or have you become as deaf as you are stupid? I wish you'd been stillborn, so that I'd never have to deal with such a poor excuse of a son," he muttered, but then paused, those sallow eyes, for once, becoming thoughtful. "But then, perhaps it would've been better if you'd gone down with that ship with some semblance of nobility. At least then there would've been some means of compensation in losing that diamond, along with that ungrateful slut you would've brought into the family, although Felicia was no better. I am relieved, however, that Bukater's daughter had never been attached to our family name. A daughter of misfortune like that deserved to go down with the debt that would've been yours, had you married her."_

_The cigarette fell from Cal's hand, and onto the floor, with Nathan's throat in its place. _

_The dissembling specter cried out in startled surprise as Cal's hold on him tightened. "Caledon!" he rasped out, albeit incoherently, as he was flailed haplessly about like a ragdoll. His once empowering form faded in and out, shrinking to nothing but a pathetic shape of a powerless, middle-aged man whose outward alarm mirrored the terror he inwardly felt. For gone was the foreboding nightmare that had dominated Hockley Steel for the better part of two generations, those filmy black eyes widening in disbelief by the power and control Cal naturally exerted as he displayed a perfect sense of control beyond any human limitation. It had been then, and only then, that Nathan Hockley ever truly feared his son. _

_He actually _felt_ pain, where only the numbness of death had long been present. The acute feel of it was almost too shocking to comprehend; the raw, overly potent anger in his son's eyes coming in at a close second as he endured yet another blow to the face from those claw-like hands. The elder Hockley closed his eyes then, a silent revelation filtering across their hazy depths. His son's retribution had come at last. For all the many beatings he'd instilled almost half a century ago, his son had finally revisited them upon him, matching mark for mark, the scars he'd left returned in a form far worse than those that lay upon Cal's back. _

_It had been a bitter realization; the acrid taste of it a desolate warning of what was yet to come as his son drug him unceremoniously from the office, and into the heart of the mill itself. He'd watched in deathly silence as those below, both the living and the dead, toiled about in their daily routine; the latter of which were seemingly the only ones aware of his presence. He almost screamed when he was pressed firmly up against the railing that prevented both him and his son from a terrible fall. "Caledon, what do you think you're doing?" he hissed, although the look in his son's eyes quelled any sense of bravado on his part._

_Nathan, for all of his boldness, knew _exactly_ what Cal intended, and he despaired in the wake of it, those cold black eyes, which very much mirrored his own, issuing a fate far worse than the death he'd suffered that night in bed, as it was then that Cal finally spoke:_

"_You have haunted me for far too long, Nathan," he ground out, wholly without sympathy or kindness, the light of an obscured sun cast perilously around them. Cal ignored the slight sting of it on his arms and shoulders as he held his ground—and his hold—on Nathan. He stepped forward, a fraction of an inch away from his father's quivering face, those long, frightful nails barely gracing it with their sharp tips. He considered Nathan in silence, wondering how he'd ever feared such a pathetic, cowering excuse of a man who had once held such notable prestige among so many financial giants when his own, withering mortality had ultimately claimed him in the end. And yet, he no longer feared the man who had been his father, and he smiled, although it was a smile filled with disappointment, bitterness, and resignation. It had been a smile nevertheless._

_And, as such, he'd indulged his old man in one, last, final conversation between father and son. "You've long instilled fear and obedience in those whom you've always held beneath you. You never held anyone at the same level as yourself, even your own son. You were even once a fierce competitor among your competition, as you knew not what it was to fear. But you do fear, don't you, Nathan?" he queried, half-mockingly, as he whispered in his father's ear, "And I know what it is."_

_Nathan's murky eyes widened to two, twin pale full moons. "You…wouldn't dare," he bit out, but knew that his son would._

_Cal regarded him coldly. "It is the way of any good businessman, who must make sacrifices for the greater good of the empire he's striven so hard to create. Is that not what you taught me?" he replied, a perfect carbon copy of the man whose fate he held in his hands. "After all, in the wake of an economic downfall, one must take steps to prevent his empire from collapsing entirely, even if it means taking the gentlemen's way out. And your time has come, Nathan, as I know you fear what lies beyond that threshold you dread so much to pass." He paused, as if collecting his thoughts, although the grip on Nathan's throat tightened exponentially. Cal laughed; a dark semblance of the merciless creature he had become, and the unholy wrath that came with it—an ill-fated harbinger of his final verdict—as he decided his father's fate. "You shouldn't have mentioned Rose; I might've actually shown you an ounce of leniency, and would've allowed you to dwell here in this self-created limbo of yours. But not now."_

"_Caledon, _please_," Nathan broke out in a staggered breath. "Please, don't do this. You can't do this. I am your _father_."_

_But the son he'd molded into his own likeness would not be swayed. Like the cold-hearted figure he'd once derived a distant pleasure in creating, the repercussions had been without pardon from consequence. As it was a machine, not a man, who had weighed, measured, and found him—him, Nathan Hockley, the overlord of Hockley Steel!—entirely wanting. His fate had been decided the moment he'd mentioned Rose deWitt Bukater, and now he would pay the price for blackening her name in this hellish demon he had for a son's eyes. _

_And yet, he made one final plea; for in spite of everything, Nathan had always been one for negotiation, even in the presence of one as tireless and as inexorable as death. He watched in growing horror as the dead—those he'd once ignored in life—draw near, gathering in a hoard underneath them. "Caledon, please, reconsider. I'll—I'll never trouble you again. If you'll allow me this one reprieve, I'll never cross paths with you or your children again. Please, son, allow your father this one kindness."_

"_Kindness?" Cal echoed hollowly, as if the meaning itself had eluded him. "I know not of any _kindness_ you have ever afforded me, or anyone else. No, Nathan, you do not deserve anything less than what you offered to those who had asked the very same of _you_." The hand that restrained Nathan loosened only a fraction as its counterpart tilted a frantic Nathan dangerously over the railing, to where the mass of the wronged, demanding, and ravenous, awaited him. Cal barely noticed them, his attention fixed solely upon the man who had once tormented him. "Your pleas of mercy have been heartening, Nathan," he ground out caustically, "but I no longer have to answer to you, let alone to only a shadow of the man you were." He cast a glance at the lingering dead on the mill's ground floor. "As it seems that you finally have to answer to more than just me. I do hope you enjoy hell, you cowering son of a bitch, for I'm already there."_

_And with those parting words, he let go, releasing Nathan to those who awaited him below as the dead descended on him when he fell. Cal watched his father faltering helplessly underneath the hungering multitude, heard his screams underneath the moldering tidal wave of bodies, arms and hands grasping and tearing as Nathan fought off their advances, though in vain, as he finally succumbed to the mass that claimed his very existence. _

_Cal made a noise of disgust. The sight itself was so reminiscent, so similar to his own experience that he'd only faintly grasped the significance of it. How ironic it now seemed that Nathan finally had a taste of what Cal had endured on those barren black waters that had changed a part of him forever._

_He'd watched it all with an apathetic stillness until he sensed Nathan's ethereal existence flicker and fade until it guttered out completely. He closed his eyes, a moment of silence accorded to the man who had left him with a failing empire and an intangible name to carry on, as the dead who'd delighted in Nathan's second demise finally made to acknowledge him, their expressions bordering on passing indecision to absolute reverence, before they, too, dissipated into the nothingness from whence they came. Cal, however, barely gave them a second thought._

_The north mill had once again become a place for the living, and Cal their enduring employer, the son, at last, taking that which was rightfully his once and for all. He looked upon his kingdom of steel and iron ore for what felt to be the first time as the massive entity before him emphasized the power and authority of the Hockley dynasty. He looked up it all, and marveled, if only for a moment, how great his sovereignty was—even if such was nothing more than a crumbling ruin of a once grand and resplendent empire. It was an empire—his empire—all the same. Nathan's demise by his own hand had seen to that._

"_The king is dead," he found himself mutter amidst the pipes of hissing steam and roaring furnaces, as he turned away from the guttered sunlight and returned to his office. "Long live the king."_

…

That had been two weeks ago. As Nathan's absence from the mill was as shocking in its nonexistence as it was welcomed. For even in the midst of the company's financial situation, the ghostly apparition that had been his father was no more, and Cal no longer cared to summon the man into his memory. As Nathan—wherever he was—had finally, and without any hope of returning, moved on.

Cal crushed the remainder of his cigar into a nearby ashtray as he glanced at the letter once again. There was no hope of recovery—not this time—as everyone would, rich and poor alike, come to suffer from this economic downturn for a long time to come. And, ironically, he'd been given a hint of its coming, months in advance. He smirked at his own foolishness in not heeding some overly devout seer who'd originally hailed from the backwater reaches of Kentucky. He would more than love to say that the whole thing had been a ruse, although how Cayce—even if he were indeed a very perceptive charlatan, who'd divulged every last bit of Cal's personal history—could know of the diamond was beyond Cal.

He'd never made his possession of it public knowledge, never kept any notes or remainders of its existence, especially since he'd purchased the goddamned thing in Europe, and had kept it under lock and key until he'd shown it to Rose in an attempt to allay whatever bout of melancholia she'd had. He rolled his eyes at the tender gesture he'd expressed then. Running off in a dinner dress—without gloves or even a proper coat, no less—to see the propellers. Really! The girl had indeed been out of her mind. But, by God, that had been something that had attracted him to her, although the results proved to be fatal in the end.

He'd noticed the staff had done their daily ritual in replacing the roses near the Rossetti in his room when he'd returned home. It had been an almost welcoming sight for his tired eyes as he gazed upon the painting's likeness and imagined things that he'd imagined after the _Carpathia_ had docked in New York. He'd tilted a glass half full of brandy to the staid lady, another face replacing her impassive one, as Cal indulged himself in his momentary fantasy of a life he could've had. For what would it have been like if the _Titanic _had completed her maiden voyage, and had arrived in New York instead of a heavy-laden _Carpathia_? The question had always made him wonder, yet never gave him a definitive answer.

It was just as well, since nothing ever came of a hypothetical situation. Only the absolute certainty of what _had_ happened remained. And he'd accepted it. Seventeen years ago. He would consider it again, however, as he would doubtlessly dwell on all of the what-ifs and only-thens that would never come to pass.

But, in the interim, he would consider other, more pressing matters at hand, like that damned Nelson Rockefeller's interest in Charlotte. Cigar forgotten, Cal thought back on the day when he'd nearly snapped the man's neck—as well as another bastard's—in front of over half of Pittsburgh's most elite families.

Staring off into the distance of his study, Cal vaguely heard the staff prepare for the night, his mind idly comparing their work to the roar of the mill's machinery and boiling furnaces. He thought of his children then, particularly of Charlotte, and that whole nasty affair regarding her and that Rockefeller scum, which had ultimately rendered his long distance association with one of the greatest steel owners half a world away forever broken. He frowned at the reality of it. Had it really only been a month that had passed since then? he wondered, tapping his manicured fingers against his desk. It almost felt as though everything had happened yesterday, as a multitude of toasts from one collective table of fools to another could still be heard in the background of his thoughts.

Wineglass after wineglass had clanged dissonantly against one another in a listless precession of stupidity that had set Cal's rationality on end. He recalled muttering an oath under his breath as he drank the last of his wine. Dear God, it had been bad enough to have to endure another stupid event as one of Margaret Carnegie Miller's philanthropy functions, but having to tolerate such a younger generation of fools, who would surely destroy a score or more of family businesses was beyond unbearable. And yet, he could do nothing _but_ tolerate them, since Mrs. Margaret Miller née Carnegie, being the only daughter and child of Andrew Carnegie, and the whole of the Pittsburgh steel echelon was expected to be in attendance, just _had_ to hold one of her ridiculous little charity events. There was precious little he could do _but_ to accept that damned invitation; though, if he had known the hell he'd receive from attending, then he would've kindly declined in going, and given the witch a very generous sum to shut her and her desire to aid those in need up.

Indeed, now that he fully reflected upon it, _that_ would have been the better alternative, compared to what had transpired instead. His first mistake—although he refused to confess it had been an actual mistake on his part—was to bring his children along. His second mistake, ultimately, was to allow them to congregate among their acquaintances, without keeping a carefully guarded eye on each.

Alexander's inebriated state by the evening's end had been the least of his worries, in a long line of embarrassments that troubled him to this day. Even after a month, Celia was barred from leaving the house, her indiscretion in kissing in public, which had reached his ears by one of the hostess' obnoxious children, had roused him from a very intense conversation with Roswell Miller about the future of steel. He'd barely retained his rage when the child laughed about "Your pretty daughter is kissing one of the waiters by the veranda" within the earshot of those standing close by. Roswell had flushed at his child's candid behavior, although Cal caught a hint of satisfaction in the man's eyes, while a few others looked at him in question. He'd excused himself without another word, silently cursing Roswell and everyone in the room. Let them question his capability in taking his children in hand; he no longer cared, although his children would bear the brunt of their incredulity.

Closing his eyes, Cal recalled his finally finding Celia. For it was just as Roswell's impertinent little child had said: his daughter was indeed with one of the staff, their lovesick stares and hastily matched kisses turning his stomach as he watched them in silence, and remembered a similar scene he'd witnessed over seventeen years before. The young man holding his daughter had had no time to react when Cal rather nonchalantly thrust him against an adjoining brick wall. Celia's screams were mercifully drowned out by the function's orchestra as Cal commenced in beating the man to within an inch of his life.

Blood had smeared his hands and face, and he lavished in its coppery scent as he proceeded to give the young man who had touched his daughter a lesson of his own. His dirty-blond hair was barely recognizable underneath the caked blood and dirt, his white waiter's uniform torn and sodden beyond recognition. Cal, however, in spite of the grisly sight before him, had remained completely composed.

"_Let that be a lesson to you, young man: a gutter rat should never try to sully something that can never belong to him,"_ he'd muttered to where only he and the nearly-unconscious waiter could hear. He then looked down at his hands, half-tempted to indulge in their sanguine taste but refrained, instead choosing to wipe away the remnants of his anger from his hands and face with a handkerchief. He'd be damned if he imbibed in the blood of some low-class social climber, who hadn't even the tact to simply serve without tasting the riches, far beyond his meager income.

He'd left the man lying there, taking a speechless Celia in hand as he personally escorted her to the main foyer, to where his chauffer waited. _"She's developed a chill, and needs to return home at once,"_ he'd told his chauffer, although the man caught onto the obvious lie, but accepted his employer's explanation nonetheless as he was obliged in taking the girl home early, before returning to retrieve Cal and the rest of his children.

Celia, however, hadn't been absolved in her behavior—not entirely—for before she departed, with her head drawn down in disgrace, Cal had wished her well, promising her that this far from over, as he had made it a point to unleash hell on her the following night. And he had, with utmost proficiency. For the girl, in spite of her insolence, now feared him, as well as to what he would do to her if she embarrassed him again. She'd almost become a saint in a month's time since then, having little to do with anyone or anything that deserved more than the innocuous yes or no to anything pertaining toward her personally.

As Cal now considered it, what had happened that night had almost been worthwhile, since he now had all of his children kept firmly in hand. But then, Celia's affair with a nameless server ill-compared to the massive bomb he'd disarmed after dinner, since it hadn't been Alexander or Marcus who'd gained every eager and wanton eye of every unattached male of marriageable age. Charlotte, his one and only example of a perfect daughter, had been the cause for his present fury.

Although if he were to be perfectly honest with himself, she had not been at fault, since she had conducted herself as any young lady would of her caliber accordingly; it had been those surrounding her, whose poorly veiled subtlety intentions had been as scandalous as they'd been repulsive.

After reassuring himself of his youngest daughter's rather shameful departure home, he'd returned to the main foyer, as if nothing untoward had happened. His claim to those who asked of Celia suddenly falling victim to the night air had been, although a rather poor excuse for her absence, accepted it nonetheless. He and the remainder of his children had been due to linger about and made idle conversation for the better part of the night, as he would've been damned if he'd been forced to send another home—which he should have, perhaps, done, now that he considered it in retrospect. As it stood, however, he could safely say that he was no longer on friendly terms with the eldest of George Arthur Gainsborough's sons, let alone George Arthur himself, after that goddamned fiasco a month ago.

It nearly galled him to even think of it, as memories of that blight of a firstborn son resurfaced in the forefront of his thoughts. The arrogant prick had had the audacity to consider himself worthy of being in the same room as Charlotte, let alone with Cal himself. It had honestly been a sad shame that a newly-returned Albert, whose own face, Cal recalled, was thoroughly wrought with dejection when his father and brother were near, had the misfortune in bringing his horrible family along with him.

Cal hadn't seen George Arthur in the flesh for the better part of a decade—not since, if he recalled correctly, his own father's funeral—although they corresponded through telegraph or letter on occasion. George Arthur's eldest son, William, he had hadn't seen since the young man was, virtually, still a boy on the cusp of manhood. William Gainsborough hadn't been impressive, even then, although the eldest of George Arthur's brood had shown a hint of promise, while an even younger Albert had been a shadow in his brother's wake, a veritable insect quivering behind his mother's skirts as those thick, bug-eyed spectacles did nothing but magnify his own, petty insignificance of being a mere second son.

Of course, now, with all things presently considered, Cal began to wonder if it was not the other way around. After all, throughout the course of history, a younger son had, at times, trumped an older sibling in both skill and intelligence, as well as having the competence in manning a family's name and wealth successfully. Such a case had been proven, time and again; however, in this circumstance, Albert's father and elder brother were in the pinnacle of health, and showed no signs of departing from this life any time soon. As it stood, his family's respectable pedigree and his grandmother's charitable stipend were the only things to commend him financially. But then, Cal had to concede, if only to himself, that the younger Gainsborough had indeed made something else commendable of his character, insignificant and lackluster as his appearance was outwardly.

Margaret Carnegie Miller's stupid little charity auction for the poor and unfortunate had confirmed that.

As Cal considered it, however, perhaps it hadn't been the best idea to have allowed Nelson Rockefeller and William Gainsborough anywhere near his daughter; but the rules of polite society had dictated otherwise, and he'd therefore been bound by his gentlemanly obligation to oblige them when they both offered a slightly disappointed Charlotte a seat, in spite of any paternal contest that he would've gladly voiced if circumstances had permitted him. Cal had watched his daughter gingerly accept their offer, her faltering composure evident in only those cornflower-blue eyes as she reluctantly sat with each man at her side. Her incognizant gesture had only been done to appease them and to prevent from making a scene, although Cal saw the look of brotherly betrayal written all over Albert's face when she had done so, as his hand rested on the chair he'd pulled out for her when his brother stepped in and had offered her his own instead.

The younger Gainsborough had fortunately taken the slight in stride, a portion on his delight returning when Charlotte would cast him inconspicuous glances, here and there, as she dutifully smiled at whatever nonsense his brother and Rockefeller spouted. She'd had no inclination, no care, in whatever they said, as those fleeting glances to Albert—and Cal, who knew just exactly what his daughter was about, as she'd learned the art of such from him well—meant.

It was after dinner, however, that had given him provocation for such a scene.

Too much champagne—even if it had been some of the finest from 1921—had been dispensed among the crowd rather generously; that much had been a certainty. Most of everyone who'd partaken and indulged, again and again, had been well in their cups and beyond, laughing and spouting off some of the most absurd things that Cal had ever heard. Even his eldest son had not been immune to its effects, as only Marcus—sensible boy that he was—refrained from more than the customary, single flute given him, as he attempted to save his elder brother's face in front of a few gullible daughters of the Philadelphia social set, by isolating him from doing any more harm to his already questionable reputation.

And although Cal could only fault their dithering hostess for such an unremarkable oversight, he knew he could never fault her completely for everything that had happened, as even he had to accept responsibility for his own actions. Nevertheless, the night had been nothing been nothing but a nightmare from the beginning. It was a pity that he could not have simply taken his children home before any more damage was done; but then, fate, providence, or whatever the hell it was had not quite finished playing him; for while Charlotte came to Marcus' side, where both prevented Alexander from pursuing a few of the less-than-sober girls in attendance, as they placated him and his every whim. Charlotte had been up in arms in commending him for both his charm and wit, while Marcus conceded that he would do all of the paperwork Cal left them for a month if he _just sat down_, to which a heavily intoxicated Alexander replied with, _"I'll sheet down, if I damn well wan' to sheet down, Marrcus, but I'll do'it, jus' so looong as you do that pa'erwork you pr'mised to do, an' gimme another drink!"_

Marcus and Charlotte had ultimately conceded to the drink, even though both knew nothing good would come of it when Alexander eventually sobered up. And yet, Marcus' business proposal had been enough to keep Alexander seated and content; and although Cal himself scoffed at Marcus' skills of persuasion, the tactic had worked nonetheless. Alexander had been detained for the remainder of the night, an empty champagne flute tilting haphazardly in a flaccid hand as he remarked on the weather, and his aversion to snow getting into his new motorcar.

But again, it had been Charlotte, not Alexander, or even his spiteful brat of a daughter Celia and her one-time _suitor_, who had caused more trouble than she knew. For after all, it was always a pretty face that made men fall all over themselves and tear one another apart like a pack of hyenas. Cal grinned darkly at the overly poetic comparison; as he'd known such all too well. Personal experience, perhaps, but true nevertheless.

He should've known that her sitting with the likes of Rockefeller and George Arthur's eldest bastard would lead to nothing but trouble. And, unfortunately, he had been right. They hadn't said anything in front of her; no, that would've been completely tactless, as they waited for her to be out of earshot for only Albert to hear. Cal had dispassionately watched them take Albert off to the side, hustling the young man so much so that he nearly lost his spectacles in the process.

It had at first seemed as nothing more than a petty bout of gloating to Cal, although his interest in the two returned when he heard his daughter's named surface in the context of their drunken conversation. Rockefeller had made a lewd comment about Charlotte's new haircut—something in which she'd practically begged that he allow her to do, and he'd finally relented, though God only knew why, since he despised those short-cut bobs that flappers and the common rabble fawned so wildly over—as he brushed off his attachment to George Roberts' granddaughter as a mere financial prospect and nothing of consequence, compared to that _"Fine mare of a much greater sire."_

The comment about Charlotte had not upset Cal as much as the implication behind it. There was no way in hell that Nelson Rockefeller would ever worm himself into the Hockley family steel empire, no matter who that son of a bitch's grandfather was. John D. Rockefeller could shove his goodwill and his god-given sincerity up his ass, for all Cal cared. But never again, would he ever allow Nelson Rockefeller anywhere near his daughter, not after that night. And he hadn't, just as he'd equally dealt with William Gainsborough in the same, effective manner.

To think, that his father ever held any respect for the Gainsborough family, inbred, dirty, English blue-blooded bastards that they were.

"_I could have the chit if I wanted, considering who my father is in the steel business and all. You, too, although you've not much of a head for it, not like your grandfather."_

Nelson looked as if he'd taken offence, but had said nothing when Gainsborough continued in his crude assessment: _"Oh, don't be such a pansy about it; I know you couldn't care less about the steel industry. I don't particularly care for it myself, but I'm bound to it nonetheless, no matter my desire to simply sell off the bloody business, and just enjoy life, as it were. As for that prize mare of yours, though, I have to confess that, in spite of her nationality, and her apparent interest in Albert here, she is quite a catch, isn't she?"_ he'd queried, mocking Albert, who glowered at him disapprovingly. William ignored his brother's displeasure, and returned his attention to Rockefeller. _"Never mind that, though, she is a fine prize. Although there's one thing you seem to forget, Nelson: she isn't, precisely, Hockley's daughter, is she? Merely a piece of steerage of some bastard-born Irishman that Hockley took on as a charity case. She's nothing more than a pet to him, Nelson: a pretty, mindless, loyal bitch that will do anything her master demands of her. She's been perfectly conditioned, no matter that bog-hopping Irish taint in her blood." _

It had been then that Albert stood up to his elder brother. _"That's quite enough, William_," the younger of the two had said firmly, boldly daring his brother to contest otherwise. _"I'll not have you say anything disrespectful about Miss Hockley—not in her presence, and certainly not in anyone else's. You don't even know her."_

"_And you do?"_ William had retaliated pointedly. _"Of course you do, since you've been in the lady's acquaintance…how many times now? It surely can't be any more than a handful, last I counted._" He looked at Albert, a knowing smile cruelly embedded on that impassive face. "_You don't know her, any more than I do, no matter her kindness in simply humoring you and your pathetic interest in her. You know that her father would never consider someone such as you, who can only play second fiddle to some like me or Rockefeller here. Face it, baby brother: you haven't a chance in hell in winning her hand, so don't even bother to try." _

"_You're an asshole," _Albert replied coldly, his brown eyes darkening behind those wide-rimmed spectacles. _"I've never seen anyone like you, William, who could derive so much pleasure in speaking so ill of others. Is it envy of something that they possess that you do not, I wonder?_" He leveled his gaze with his brother's, no long the mousy scholar he'd long been perceived to be. "_I understand that I could never hope to be anything close to you in our father's eyes; I do not hold such ambitions for myself, although I do happen to care for Miss Charlotte Hockley is ways that you could never fathom, whereas you could never appreciate, nor see the brilliant woman you just so callously labeled as chattel. She is leagues above you, since you could never hope to be worthy of being her presence. Even if you were to become a most pious saint among those of this earth, you would never deserve her."_

William had only smirked at that. _"Well played, little brother, well played indeed,"_ he mocked, before maliciously adding, "_As then there's the matter of Hockley himself. From what I've heard, the fellow isn't quite right in the head, as it were. That little topple he'd had in the streets some months ago has apparently messed with that wine-stained mind of his, although he _is_ getting on in years. He's probably senile by now. Even so, he's wise enough not to pay you any mind, not when, from what I've heard, he's in a position that requires certain collateral to keep that steel empire of his afloat_."

Rockefeller had chuckled at that, having heard the same rumor. _"It's ironic that something as disastrous as the _Titanic_ sinking couldn't destroy him, but his apparent disinterest in marrying off his children into other steel families, added with his penchant for the drink and gambling, will sink him in the end. Perhaps it _is_ better to pursue Clark's simpering little fool of a daughter, since that will at least tie me into something other than a family with a disgrace of a prospective father-in-law."_

That had done it.

Without another word to compel him, Cal vacated from his hiding place and made his presence known. He'd presented himself without preamble, his presence alone speaking volumes of his capability in commanding the three young in front of them. He gave them a congenial nod of recognition, that cool, steady dark gaze betraying nothing as he silenced the small party with a swift change in their topic of conversation. He'd given Albert a considerate glance, carefully scripting the young man's exodus, for what he had to say was solely for his brother and Rockefeller alone. As such, he granted Albert a gift that rendered William Gainsborough mystified.

"_Albert, would you be so kind as to accompany my daughter in a dance? I believe a waltz is about to begin, and it's her favorite."_

Albert didn't have to be told twice, although he'd expressed visible surprise at the suggestion. He'd stumbled over his gratitude for Cal giving him such leave as to attend to his daughter, but had no less taken him up on the offer as he left Cal in the company of his brother and Rockefeller.

Granting Albert such a kindness had not been solely done out of the goodness of his heart, but was more so a means to stupefy the two men before him, as he gestured for them to follow him to a more secluded area. _"It was so kind of both of you to attend to my daughter at dinner,_" he'd said, having the two a good distance away from everyone else. "_Indeed, I find myself indebted to your kind attentions to her, as I wanted to thank the both of you personally." _They'd visibly shifted at the suggestion, and Cal inwardly grinned. _"Since it's not every day that I have not one, but _two_, perfectly eligible and worthy gentlemen vying for my daughter's attention."_

Rockefeller had the good sense to blanch. _"It's always a pleasure to be in her company; she's quite an intelligent, accomplished young woman. A true honor, really."_

Cal had given Rockefeller a patronizing grin. "_Yes, it appears that my daughter has inherited a great many virtues. For after all, she _is_ a Hockley, no matter any foreign _taint_ that might suggest otherwise, right gentlemen?"_ He'd smiled a most deadly smile at Rockefeller and William, as each knew that he'd heard every word they'd said.

William had been the first to speak. _"Sir, you've misunderstood—"_

"_Oh, have I?"_ Cal broke in, the cordial façade gone, replaced by the nightmare that had possessed the shrewd businessman he'd been in another life. _"Don't insult my intelligence, you pathetic little prick. I know well enough what you meant; I'm perfectly sober tonight, so I understand you perfectly." _With this, he clapped a friendly hand on the latter's shoulder, although such contact was far from friendly. He leaned in, for only William to hear. _"If you ever come near my daughter again, I'll tear you apart, and no one, not the police, not your figure head of a king, and certainly not your father will ever find what remains of you, am I understood?"_ He then turned to Rockefeller, who undoubtedly surmised what Cal had whispered. _"Shouldn't you be returning to your own intended, Nelson? My daughter's interests also lie elsewhere."_

That had been Rockefeller's cue to retreat, which he sensibly did, muttering a few, half-intelligible apologies along the way, and obviously leaving William Gainsborough to Cal's mercy. He'd almost applauded the buffoon. Leave it to a _true_ gentleman to allow another gentleman to completely take the fall. Rockefeller, whatever he endeavored to do with himself, would surely hold such a commendable attribute in spades. William Gainsborough was another matter entirely, however.

He hadn't torn William Gainsborough to pieces, or subjected the bastard to some vulgarity-laden tirade; in fact, he'd said very little to the man—in the brief interlude where no one noticed their presence. No, the only thing he'd imparted to George Arthur's eldest son was a look of disapproval and a thinly veiled threat of enacting what he had whispered only a few minutes before. He'd grasped Gainsborough's shoulder then, his sharp nails digging into the fine evening coat, emphasizing his point. _"I am glad that we have an understanding, William; you're obviously not as stupid as Nelson Rockefeller, since you've clearly inherited some of your father's intelligence, after all,"_ he'd said, that grip unwavering in its intent. _"But even that will not save you from what I'll do if you _ever_ consider what you suggested tonight. Stay the hell away from my daughter and return to your hole in England, if you know what's good for you."_

And William Gainsborough had, as he and his father boarded the next passage back to London. Nothing had been sent in the form of an apology to Cal; indeed, the was no further correspondence between Gainsborough and himself, or even from George Arthur, who had doubtlessly found out when William was at a safe distance from Cal. Only Albert had remained, going against his father's wishes in distancing both of his sons from Charlotte and the monster of a father William had undoubtedly painted him as. It mattered little now. Cal hadn't cared either way; least of all, about what George Arthur thought of him.

He never considered George Arthur being in the same league of lowlife scum as his father, but the man had proven otherwise, as he withdrew all contact, not only from Cal, but also from Albert in the process. The boy was left virtually without the financial backing of his own family—something, Cal was sure, had been the doing of his miserable elder brother—as he lived on, from what Cal had heard, was a kind stipend from his maternal grandmother. It had been most fortunate for Albert to have a viscount's dowager daughter to sympathize with his plight, by providing him with a moderate income. And even luckier for him, perhaps, that Charlotte had been made privy to such knowledge, otherwise Cal would have been compelled to server their tender association altogether.

But then, Cal had to admit, in spite of Albert's many shortcomings, and the drastic turn in anything he'd receive from his father's inheritance, standing up for Charlotte's honor had granted him a new insight regarding the young man who was clearly enamored by his daughter. After all, it wasn't every day that a young man of Albert Gainsborough's standing would risk to lose both his family name and his inheritance over a pretty face. Perhaps there was something worthy in the young man after all, although Cal was loath still to consider Albert a prospective husband for Charlotte, no matter his obvious devotion to her.

Though now, as his own circumstances loomed heavily before him, he had to consider the future of his children very carefully, in spite of their happiness. His own marriage with Felicia hadn't been one forged from a shared, mutual happiness, but of the wealth and privileges it brought from both sides. _And look how _that_ turned out. _He grimaced in the midst of his own sarcasm, and almost withdrew himself completely from the whole affair as he took the envelope that foretold the end of Hockley Steel in his hand and threw it in the trash.

He didn't bother to retrieve it, as another was bound to replace it.

It was just as well, since there was nothing else to be done but accept them with the remainder of his dignity. His patience was already wearing thin, having denied his growing hunger to ease his affliction. He'd even attempted to wean himself off of consuming so much raw meat and his own blood, only to find himself even more ravenous when he finally gave in to his thirst for something more than the bland tastes of the earthly delights which had once sated him.

Even now, he was tempted beyond measure to simply cut his wrist and indulge the demonic entity that clawed at his remaining sanity. He didn't require a base mixture of wine to heighten the experience, either; an open vein would perfectly suffice. He rubbed his tired, bloodshot eyes, fighting back the pain he internally felt. Goddamn it all, but the pain would not shift. _It's gotten a lot worse_, he thought, in spite of his desire to ignore the whole of his affliction entirely. He silently cursed himself and the whole of the world as the nightmare that had become his life had taken an entirely new track in his strange evolution.

It had started, not long after his uneventful meeting with Cayce. Though, even then, the occurrences hadn't been all that terrible, just a few brief instances, here and there, that he'd simply ignored. He grimaced at the simplicity of his past inaction, knowing well enough that they'd intensified since that whole mess with Wall Street, his stress and frustration and God only knew what else spurring them on.

Perhaps Cayce had opened a door into his thoughts when the man had gone into that bizarre trance. Either way, Cal had no explanation for it, though whatever the _fuck_ that man had done when he'd answered Cal's questions, had left him with something more than just disappointment and a wasted train ticket. The mental projections—whatever the hell they were—of faces and moments and times he'd long since wished to forget would flash across his mind at the most inopportune moments. He'd unofficially labeled them as delusions, since they'd been almost as bad as Nathan, poisoning in their transitory presence, although they'd been far from ghosts that he could easily exercise.

No, they'd been far worse than that, since they'd been conjured from the reality of his own fragmented memories. His latest hallucination…he'd no wish to relive, as having to face the end of everything he'd ever known was far easier an accomplishment, as having to conjure that single mocking face that reminded him of the one time he'd ever _lost_.

Yes, he certainly needed that drink.

It would keep the delusions he had when he didn't drink—which was something he absolutely wouldn't tolerate tonight—at bay, as he finally relented and cut his wrist with the pocket knife he kept in his desk.

He drank freely, thinking of everything about his life and nothing simultaneously by turns, although most of his thoughts—his more coherent conjectures, to be more precise—focused on the substantial loss he could've avoided, and the bloody aftermath which would duly follow suit in the subsequent weeks. He hadn't related the extent of his losses to his children, although Marcus undoubtedly suspected, from what little he could construe from the statements Cal actually allowed him to see. Alexander had passed the twenty-ninth off as nothing but a slight dip in an ever-cyclical cycle of stocks and shares. But this was more than a mere recession; Cal had ridden out many throughout the years, and knew that whatever happened on October's last Tuesday, was unlike anything he or any other investor had seen. It was the end of an age, a turning point from the old world that he and so many of his father's living acquaintances knew, as well as the time of the Bright Young Things that were his own children, as the world proceeded into the next decade, and, more ironically, into the unknown.

He wouldn't contact Cayce again, not even for a reading on how to bandage what was undoubtedly a mortal wound for Hockley Steel. His pride would not allow him. Even though…his unexpected generosity—which was something he rarely considered—had hinted at another side, a better side, perhaps, to his otherwise forbidding and immovable character, for such was only brought on by the despondent lunacy of a madman. Perhaps he _had_ lost his mind. He smirked in spite of it, wondering if he was still as sane as he'd been on the twenty-eighth of October as he was now, staring at the endless vacuum of a life ruined in a single day. His mouth fell away from his wrist, the wound healing instantly.

For the moment, he remained a millionaire, if only in name, although becoming a pauper was now his—as well as his family's—reality. It was almost too inconceivable, too unfathomable to even comprehend. He glanced at the top right-hand drawer of his desk, half-inclined to open it, where one solution to his problem lay within. And how easy—how fucking simple!—it would be to resort to it. But he wasn't a coward, not like Nathan, who cowered before the inevitable for a decade, hiding away in the shadows that had only embellished an indomitable force that hadn't really been there—not like his, which was still a force to be reckoned with.

He barely construed what would remain of such after the destabilization of Hockley Steel finally became a reality when a knock—almost timid in its swift, yet firm, motion—on his study door pulled him from the darkness of his thoughts. Charlotte. How unsurprising. As per usual, her timely concern for his well-being was as punctual in its nightly occupation as the irregularity in his hours was that permitted her presence. And yet, he welcomed her all the same.

And, as usual, that same genuine look of worry suffused her delicate features when she shut the door, doubtlessly for a moment of privacy. "I saw your light on," she began, taking a seat across from him, her hands folded over the thick folds of her light-blue dressing gown. "I just wanted to see if you needed anything." When she saw him shake his head, she continued. "You've been working so hard lately, Daddy; we hardly see you at home anymore. Marcus said that he and Alexander can barely keep up with you."

Cal acknowledged her words with a disturbingly silent affirmation. For in that momentary gesture, he saw the beauty that so naturally became his eldest daughter, even with that ghastly short bob of hair she seemed to favor. Still, though, she was a marvel to behold. A blonde geisha, dressed in delicate pale silks of the Orient. An absolute gem, utterly flawless, and one of the finest in his collection. It was almost a shame that he might have to barter her to cover some of his own losses. But he would think of that later. Right now, he had to play "Daddy" for his little Charlotte.

"They've done adequately well in handling whatever task I assign them," he returned, a mundane response, although it seemed to please her. "I believe Marcus will one day prove a most valuable asset to the company, although…"

"You wish you could say the same for Alexander," she finished for him, wholly in understanding, as she sadly shook her head. "I know that Alexander isn't really one for business, but he does have his good points."

Cal lifted a questioning eyebrow. "If you can name them, then I might believe you."

Charlotte flushed madly under his dispassionate gaze. "Well, he's…he's always…Let me think on that," she finally said, completely at a loss for words, and her father laughed, strangely amused.

"You may have all of the time in the world for that one, since I won't rush you for an answer on your brother's many _talents_ any time soon," he said, and Charlotte returned his laughter with her own.

It was as close to a joke as he'd make at his son's expense, without the hellfire and brimstone that it usually came with in such a circumstance. The tension between father and daughter lightened significantly, becoming almost nonexistent, if only for a short time. She'd even brought him some tea, instead of the coffee she usually offered him on nights such as this. Apparently, she desired him to retire for the night, her next words confirmation of that wish.

She glanced at the clock on the mantle-piece, noting the hour. "Daddy, it's a little after two in the morning. You've had such a busy day at the mill; why don't you rest for the night?" She had the kindness in not saying anything of their family's financial woes, although Cal knew for a fact that she'd heard, and worried, not necessarily for their wealth or the mills, but for him.

He only wished that he could say the same for Alexander, while Marcus strove to do everything he could to reverse the damage already done to the company, and Celia remained duly afraid of him, although she seemed to fear losing a large portion of the comforts she'd long known and had come to expect even more. It had surely been from Felicia's side that he'd gotten such a flighty, narrow-minded creature for a daughter and a simpleton for an heir. _Though no longer_, he corrected himself, taking in Charlotte's faltering smile and tired expression. God only knew how long she'd stayed up, worrying.

He stood then, coming to her side and placed a hand on one of her slumping shoulders. It was as much fatherly affection as he would allow, as he urged her to go to bed. "I'll be along shortly," he assured her. A lie, of course, but one she'd accepted, as she smiled her brightest smile, in spite of her silent fears, and kissed his cheek.

"Good-night, Daddy. I'll…see you in the morning," she said, and he nodded his head in silent agreement, a final look taken, as she closed the door behind her, and leaving him once again to the silence that had become a most intimate companion to him.

He barely noticed that she'd kissed him good-night, her retreating footsteps melting into the darkness beyond his study. He was scarcely aware of anything, his wrist already healed, although his thirst hadn't left him, not fully, as the delusions returned in full force. Goddamn it. He'd never had them so bad before. Pushing himself at work had done little to allay them, as a heady dose of regret, guilt, and possibly everything else in that category had only fueled them in their intensity.

His eyes closed against the pain they inflicted, but he would not give in to them. No, he would not surrender, not even to that one delusion that was as cold and as alluring as an iceberg. The danger of what lay beneath its surface was too Freudian, too unpredictable, and too deadly for his already faltering sanity. But the image remained: a fiery vapor, dark and utterly tantalizing in its primal state, calling to him, tempting him to let go of everything. _Take it up. Kiss it as you would my frozen corpse. Pull the trigger. Let go. Just let go._

He took the engagement ring from out of his pants pocket instead, his distant thoughts alighting on the portrait in his bedroom, and of the timeless beauty who would never smile as its damned counterpart in his mind instinctively did.

_Veronica Veronese_. Silent. Restrained. Composed. Forever trapped in her gilded cage. A perfect lady. What complete and utter bullshit. Rossetti should've named her Katherina Minola, for the insufferable cocktease she so inherently was, and had been done with it. But then, Cal in a way understood Rossetti enshrining one of his finest portraits, by titling it with a moniker so true to its nature, since he, in essence, shared a certain connection of loss with the artist. Of course, he hadn't lost some terribly clichéd, lost love to a laudanum overdose; his loss was nothing as inspiring as that, since Rossetti's wife and muse had seemingly loved him in return before meeting her tragic end. Though all the same, tragedy was a thing Cal knew intimately, as he allowed the siren in, no longer barring her and her self-righteous rage.

He glanced at the ring that he held in the palm of his hand, watching its set diamonds sparkle like stars as its former keeper returned from the abyss, her unsightly contours melding against the ring, a golden Medusa, with a stone-like stare to match. _Why haven't you let go?_ those serpentine eyes silently accused. Cal frowned at the accusation, and forced the image from his mind, rejecting it, rejecting her…if only temporarily, as the customary habit in spinning the ring in between his fingers returned him to a brief moment of reality. He could think of nothing else, as he tugged at a familiar gold chain attached to his waistcoat pocket, his mental barriers breaking down with each passing second.

He looked at his pocket watch. Almost twenty after two. _Roughly around the same time as_—but he would not think of that, not now, not when he considered what he had to do, although the timing did help in making his decision.

Staring down at the tea Charlotte had left him, he took it up, his final kindness to her, as he indulged himself in its bitter contents until only the bottom of the cup remained, a mass of black tea leaves, congealed and ugly, and holding nothing but their own, pathetic insignificance in regards to his future. It was almost a pity that they didn't foretell what would happen next in his crazy upside down life, as the face returned, a relentless adversary, that would not cease in its silent provocation as it forced him to think of his life and the letter in the tin wastebasket which sat next to him.

His gaze lingered over to where it resided, before returning his attention to the top right-hand drawer of his desk. He pulled it open without another word, his answer—his sanity—staring back at him in cold, black assurance. His sole means of saving his family. A courtesy for a gentleman. The only measure to prove himself unlike his cowardly father, as his parting words to Nathan revisited him, demanding that he prove the man wrong, that he _could_ take the gentlemen's way out with some dignity. And he had only the noble Romans of a fallen empire to thank for it, as there had been no other of his acquaintance from whom he could learn by example. Not yet, anyhow. Perhaps they would jump out of their townhouse windows, with a gilded hope that they could _fly_ tomorrow. He himself held no such delusions as salvation lay, cold and solemn, before him.

He disregarded its presence, however, holding off the inevitable as he briefly thought of his children and the legacy he would leave them, before returning his attention to the ring. He spun it around in a laconic manner, wholly lackadaisical in his silent summation of his past forty-seven years of life as he recited part of a poem he'd read in his Harvard days:

_"And he was rich – yes, richer than a king –  
And admirably schooled in every grace:  
In fine, we thought that he was everything  
To make us wish that we were in his place."_

The engagement ring spun on without impediment.

_"So on we worked, and waited for the light,  
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;"_

He pulled out the revolver, his other hand continuing in the ring's spinning.

_"And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,  
Went home and—" _

A single gunshot echoed in the study, the revolver, with its gunmetal gray casing, clattering noisily against the floor until a deafening silence replaced it.

A body eclipsed half of the blood-splattered mahogany desk, its lifeless shape exuding the internal cold of a life extinguished long before the pulling of a trigger. Only a body had continued on, its mechanical movements soulless and resolute. Though no more. He was now as assuredly dead as she or any other who'd perished that night. And _that_ had made all the difference, as those black eyes, in the midst of cooling dark blood and scattered brain tissue, clouded over in true death, his already still heart as silent as the grave.

It would later be noted in subsequent newspaper headlines that the great Caledon Hockley had taken his own life, considering his financial circumstances and the questionable survival of Hockley Steel. What it would not print, although true in its speculation of the former, was that he'd finally succumbed to that which he'd long eluded for seventeen years, the sole reminder of such a miserable and intenerate existence that had been within arm's reach of something he could never truly attain. The papers would, assuredly, suggest otherwise, creating more of a myth than anything of relative substance. He would die in the wake of shame, and burden his family with a scandal of his own making. People would speak of his downfall for years to come, as he had finally slipped in his guileless perfection, the artifice broken at last.

If he could've smiled, he would have, if solely at the irony of his own, pathetic demise. The final traces of his undead life had ebbed away to the cold, black stillness of death, with only a fading mental image of a young woman of seventeen in a purple pinstriped day suit smiling her mocking half-smile at him as she boarded an ill-fated ocean liner that edged perilously toward eternity. He inwardly laughed at the sight of her. Dream or crazed manifestation, death must've had a twisted sense of humor, since the siren of his delusions welcomed him all the same, an endless, rapturous façade of intrigue etched upon her horrifically beautiful face, as he mindlessly accepted her poisonous embrace, and hell itself.

The last synapse in his brain snapped, the diamond ring—the bodily symbol of eternity—glittering darkly in the growing stillness as his fingers absently withdrew from his possession of it, his lowly existence no longer connected with its gleaming silver shape.

He thought his last, with only a hellfire siren in mind.

And the ring fell…

…as it stopped in its spinning.

…

**Author's Notes: Such a **_**Lord of the Rings**_** moment, with the chapter ending there. But, yes, Happy Halloween, everyone! This is an early treat from me, although I'm sure that many of you may consider it more the trick than an actual treat… **

**I honestly don't know where to begin with this; but, to be perfectly honest, I've had this chapter's ending planned since this story's conception. It was sadly unavoidable, and was, actually, pretty much the reason **_**why**_** I'm writing this story. I think James Cameron's comments on Cal "getting his just desserts," although he admitted that Cal suffered from the fate of a one-dimensional villain in his director's commentary, during one of the film's deleted scenes. Nevertheless, his comments reinforced my desire to write a story in which Cal is not the completely the aforementioned, soulless one-dimensional villain as he was depicted in the film. As such, I do hope that the whole ending scene was believable. I had a lot of difficulty in writing it, and put it off for as long as I could. Either way, Cal isn't playing with a full deck of cards anymore, as those delusions unfortunately suggested.**

**It might also be impossible for Cal to actually have any coherent thoughts after blowing his brains out; but, for some reason, the man seems to defy the laws of science. His decision to shoot himself after looking at the time is also significant of his escaping death during the sinking. **

**I also hope this chapter doesn't seem too rushed, since **_**a lot**_** of things happened, but I am beginning to tie up some loose ends, before I continue on to the second half of this story. I wanted this chapter to feel as if a good deal of time—months, really—had passed, so I hope it had that kind of feel to it for everyone. I also glanced through this chapter, so I'm bound to have missed some grammatical errors. I'll correct it if I catch anything; I just wanted to post this, since today reflects the semi-ending of this first half perfectly.**

**And Celia's little encounter with that nameless waiter just came out of nowhere, honestly. For that reason, as well as the parallel between her and Rose's relationship with Jack, I decided to leave it in, so that Cal could deal with it, not to mention his own issues regarding the whole Jack/Rose love affair and his part in it, seventeen years later. It just worked out that way, and I'm actually glad that it did, since it needed to be addressed. Consider it a twenty-first century method of therapy for Cal! :D**

**Nathan's exit is left open for interpretation. I'll admit that it's a very vague and dark fate that Cal left him with, but, again, it's the readers' call, as to what actually became of him.**

**Also, I didn't directly mark the date, but this chapter pretty much takes place a couple of weeks after the stock market crash, which would explain the letter and the timing of its arrival. I actually had some issues about the whole stock broker/investor-jumping-out-of-building-windows-on-the-29****th**** thing, since that's really just a myth, as there were very few suicides recorded that denoted such. It's mainly why I didn't have Cal musing too much on any of his acquaintances doing that kind of thing, other than such being tongue-and-cheek, since his reason for his own suicide wasn't exactly over his loss of fortune, either.**

**And now, for some historical trivia!**

**Surrealism was really only in its nascent stages in the 1920s. I didn't mention Salvador Dalí, mainly for the fact that he was only beginning to become a prominent artist in 1929, and Cal probably wouldn't have heard of him at the point in time anyway, especially since he obviously had a distaste for new movements and groups, like the Impressionists and Cubist painters. It just didn't seem fitting for him to take an interest in something he disliked, you know?**

**Margaret Carnegie Miller was the only daughter of Andrew Carnegie and Louise Whitfield, who was a philanthropist and heiress to her father's fortune in steel. She was married to Roswell Miller for some time, and had four children by him, before their marriage ended in divorce in 1953. From what I've read, the couple did remain on friendly terms, even after marrying other spouses. Andrew Carnegie's enterprise was primarily in Pittsburgh, so it's theoretically possible that Margaret would have charity functions there among the wealthy. That assumption is the basis for setting up the conclusion to the first half of this story. **

**The 1921 vintage of champagne that Alexander evidently had a little too much of is heavily hinted to be the 1921 Dom Pérignon, which is considered to be one of the most sought-after bottles of champagne among wine collectors, as well as one of the best vintages known. It's also the first year in which Dom Pérignon began bottling champagne—a little tidbit I learned from an episode of **_**Pawn Stars**_**—and is a crown jewel in its own right. I'd love to try some myself! XD**

**The poem that Cal recites at the end is from Edwin Arlington Robinson's narrative poem, "Richard Cory," which describes the life of a man who has everything, yet is far from happy. The poem is from the perspective of the townspeople—who are obviously poor, yet admire him nonetheless—and emphasizes his apparent unhappiness that the townspeople fail to understand through his suicide at the end. I decided to use it as a means to parallel Cal's life, and what he must be thinking of at that moment, with it. It's a very short poem, but is powerful in its overall meaning nonetheless.**

**There are a couple of allusions strewn about, here and there, in this chapter, as well. Katherina Minola is Shakespeare's Shrew from **_**The Taming of the Shrew**_**. The "courtesy for a gentleman" remark is directly taken from the 2002 film adaptation of **_**The Count of Monte Cristo**_**, in which a very similar instance is played out in the film. I love, love, love that film, by the way! :D The comparison of Rose being as deep and profound as an iceberg is an allusion to Freud's Id, Ego, and Superego concept. The "weighed, measure, and found wanting" is from **_**A Knight's Tale**_**.**

**Amanda, thank you so much again for continuing to read this story! I confess that I grinned when I read your review, since you nailed Cal's fate in it: his unusual kindness **_**was indeed**_** a foreshadowing of the hell he would spiral into. This chapter **_**is**_** the storm that you so aptly mentioned! I also hope you liked Albert, since I wanted him to really shine in this chapter, by standing up to his bully of an older brother. If only there were more men out there like Albert…Charlotte's so lucky! And, truly, I am so happy to know that this story has had you reconsider Cal's character. I also thought very little of him, when I first saw the movie, but now, after having read some criticisms regarding the film, as well as some very well-written fanfiction about Cal on this site, I have to say that I can no longer see him in the same light as I once did. But again, it is an honor, to know that you regard Cal differently and also like the Cal/Rose edge! :)**

**RikkiChadwick2011, that is indeed funny that a Charlotte has shown up as prominent characters in our stories. I haven't read your story, but I'll look into it! Thanks so much for reading and reviewing; I am so glad that you've enjoyed reading so far!**

**And again, my thanks to everyone who is reading. Thank you, also, for all of your thoughts, messages, and PMs, I truly appreciate it!**

**Until the next chapter!**

— **Kittie**

**November 30****th****, 2011****: Just a quick note. I re-edited this chapter, and reformatted the **_**Richard Cory**_** poem, as well as the flashback between Cal and Nathan. I should also have everything corrected this time. I've also redone the ending a bit, since I wasn't completely happy with the first draft. I may revise this chapter again, since I still feel that it could be more than it is. But we'll see. Either way, I'm now satisfied with this newly revised ending, whereas the other was not for what I'd originally hoped.**


	8. Chapter Eight, Part I: From the Ashes

Disclaimer: I do not own _Titanic_, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to James Cameron, Paramount Pictures, Twentieth Century Fox, and their respected owners.

Summary: March 1929. He has always possessed her, the claim on her made, long before either realized the consequences derived from it. For a man like Caledon Hockley was not one to give up that which he claimed so easily—not even from beyond the grave.

His Dark Possession

Chapter Eight

Part One

"_Denn die Todten reiten schnell/For the dead travel fast." – From the inscription on the Countess Dolingen of Gratz's tomb, found by the Englishman—presumably Jonathan Harker—from Bram Stoker's short story, _Dracula'sGuest.

…

Cal's eyes opened to a vacuous blot of nothingness as he awoke to only darkness and disillusionment. A violent upsurge of pain shot through his chest before passing into his lungs, where the equivalent of a thousand driving daggers plunged into him, tearing both his flesh and mind alike apart. It was a figurative description—wholly metaphorical, by a German philosopher's social standard, certainly—but was one very aptly placed, since he cried out, amidst the frigid waters that consumed him.

There was little else he could do, the unseen agony of being engulfed in the depths of his own subconscious imaginings so immense that he could barely construe one tangible thought from the next. He strained against the madness inspired by the shattered fragments that remained of his mind, however, his perception clearing if only slightly until a single shred of his torture lifted, his awareness perceiving the nightmare of his memories as he relived every torturous moment of it, down to the last detail of dying a cold, meaningless death that he'd barely eluded in an overcrowded lifeboat. For there he was: immersed in the cold, black stillness of an ocean surrounded by ice—an ocean, which tragically claimed over fifteen hundred motionless, panic-stricken lives—the realization of where he was hitting him like a sharp blow to the gut.

Shaking his head in violent disbelief, he flailed madly about, doing all within his power to remain afloat. Adept swimmer though he was, he still found it difficult to retain a semblance of calm, amidst the fear and anguish that threatened to drown him as he fought to keep his head above the dark current. He looked wildly about for anything that he could clutch onto, yet found only a vast ocean of nothingness surrounding him. No lifeboat. No lifebelt. Not even a scrap of an ornate wooden door that might serve as driftwood. There was nothing there to keep him from drowning, as only he and the ocean existed in this dense void that teetered on the edge of his awareness. _Goddamn it all to hell, I am such a fool_.

And so he cried out, cursing every star in the clear sky above him—an echo of the cries made on that night so long ago—though now finding no other to accompany his but his own. He was completely alone. Lost in this cold wasteland that served as a personal hell of his own making. How fucking wonderful. It was oddly poetic, in a sense. Seeing Dawson instead would've been a better alternative to the disgrace he presently felt. He outwardly grimaced at the thought of the gutter rat, taking back the thought as he found himself preferring a hell such as this—for he was sure he was, finally, in such a long-believed-in mythical place—since he would, at the very least, not have to suffer the shame in seeing his rival's smug expression as Dawson's plebian, boyish face would say it all: _You've fucked up your last chance to do something halfway redeemable. Congratulations, Cal, you've finally earned your place in hell, alongside that bastard of a father of yours_.

But then, Nathan Hockley wasn't there, struggling to keep that bloated, autocratic head afloat; and Cal almost smiled at the fact of it, if not for the numbness that presently affected every muscle in his body. He could barely feel anything in his hands, let alone his legs and feet as his attempt to keep himself from going under lessened with each passing second. For if he was, in fact, truly dead, why did it matter if he struggled to survive? Would he finally be consumed in an eternal fiery furnace if he allowed himself to fall beneath the surface? Would he plunge face-first into a pit of fire and burn for all eternity? Or would he be forever trapped in a sea of ice, full of hatred and frozen emotions? He failed to recall how Dante described it in his _Inferno_, but he remembered enough to draw a semi-accurate comparison.

For if this was indeed hell…

_At least Dawson isn't here_, he thought, faintly relieved by the assurance, until he considered the sense of isolation the gutter rat's absence irrefutably left him with. Cal could not deny that he didn't feel some sense of regret for his present dilemma, for he knew damn well that he'd pulled that trigger and welcomed whatever had awaited him on the other side with open arms as his delusion of Rose further implemented that long withheld sense of no longer giving a damn about anyone or anything. Self-preservation was so damnably overrated, more often than not, and Cal no longer cared for the consequences in departing from that long upheld belief as he wrapped himself in a blanket of self-disillusionment and watched his entire world collapse around him.

He laughed even now, as he floated in the middle of a quasi-existent vision of the cold North Atlantic, with no lifeboat and no hope of rescue. He laughed at his fate, laughed at himself, since he would undoubtedly suffer this way for all eternity. It was a perfect punishment, fitting in a way, considering how he'd narrowly escaped from almost the very same in life; whereas in death, he duly repaid his evasion thereof a hundredfold. Rose would undoubtedly find his predicament amusing, and he laughed at the thought and how absurdly ridiculous imagining her in such a manner truly was. He laughed again, laughed at her and the ridiculously large purple hat she'd worn upon boarding that day, since it was not his precious Rose, who was now in the water with him, dying a slow, painfully agonizing death; for did she feel the same as he presently did, he could not help but wonder? Did she shudder at the acrid touch of death as she fought to stay alive, while her body slowly began to give in to the cold, her pulse slowing, before her heart stopped completely in its motions as she immortalized the tragedy of the _Titanic's_ sinking with so many others? She must have. Surely. She was now just as dead as the gutter rat, and there wasn't a goddamned thing Cal could do about it.

Not that he wouldn't have tried to do, of course. He would've gladly traded Nathan's pathetic life—whatever few years the bastard had left after the sinking, rather—and Hockley Steel, his mansion, and the whole of his property, and personal effects, and, yes, he would've even gladly thrown that fucking _diamond_ into the ocean, if it would've ensured her life, so that he could've had the pleasure in strangling her personally. For Cal hated to lose. _And you lost her, didn't you?_ his mind shot back snidely, and Cal cursed it, as he did every moment of his damnable existence. He wished that he'd never been born. _But you were born, weren't you?_ his conscience continued on, taunting him, though this time it sounded remarkably like Lovejoy.

He ignored it as he glared darkly across the black abyss, with only his thoughts of what was and could never be to keep him company, the voices of those who'd long since passed into the next world falling disturbingly silent. He barely noticed the silence, lost in thought as he was with the sound of the ocean blocking out all rational thought. For all he knew, yet better perceived, was that he was cold and alone and submersed in an ocean of regret. _Well, at least I don't have to worry about that thrice-damned blood thirst_, he thought, a little cynically. The hunger pangs that continuously plagued him, he presently noticed, had strangely abated—if only presently—as the pain of the cold, an equally brutal substitute, settled into his bones. He barely had a chance to acknowledge the exchange as he noticed, if indistinctly, the darkness surrounding him lightening to a dusky purple hue. He frowned at the sight, looking up at the sky above him and seeing the stars, catching a glimpse of the Corona Borealis constellation, before looking once again across the sea.

A startled gasp—not wholly a cry or scream—escaped from him then, his frozen expression etched into that of newly refined horror.

No. No, it couldn't be.

"No!" he cried out to the top of his lungs, the horror—a veritable beast which rivaled that of Yeats' post-apocalyptic monstrosity—looming ominously like the iceberg that had sealed the _Titanic's_ fate in the distance; and Cal stared at it in shocked silence, the dawn of a most dreadful realization suddenly breaking over the horizon. The sun. He screamed as its brilliant fiery-red light broke against the sky and sea as it inevitably fell upon his ashen face, his dark full wrath upon every sense that he possessed. He tried to dive underneath the water, but found himself unable, his arms and legs weakened by the struggle both above and below the surface, as he froze and burned by turns, the pain too intense to form any coherent thought of escape.

Crying out once again, he fought against the merciless sun until his voice disintegrated with the rest of him, his final thoughts lingering in the remainder of his consciousness. _No, no, this is not how it's supposed to end. This is not how I fucking planned to die. I want to live, goddamn it! I want to live, do you hear me?_ he cried out to an unseen God.

"I want to live!"

He suddenly awoke to darkness and the sound of his own screams as he found himself, lying prostrate, in a comfortingly small compartment with a ceiling he could touch by extending his fingers slightly upward. It only took the briefest moment to realize what he'd done, and where he must be, as the reality of it struck him hard. Shit. He hadn't anticipated this, hadn't expected to awaken in such a pathetically distressing state, especially since it wasn't every day one awoke to find himself well and truly buried inside his own coffin. _Fucking hell_, he thought, cursing his ill-begotten luck as his eyes pierced through the darkness and found no way of escape. Screaming for someone to help would do him little good, considering that, judging by the length of his fingernails, that he'd been laid to rest, as it were, for at least a few days. No, no one would hear him now. If he wanted out, he would have to find his own way.

And so, against everything that burned within him to relent, combined with a sensible understanding that such an endeavor was absolutely hopeless, he pressed his hands against the top of the coffin's lid, shifting his weight to his left side as he added more force against its cushioned wooden surface. He shut his eyes against the added force, grinding his teeth as his newly formed claws dug into the satiny white fabric. The lid refused to yield, and he shouted his frustration in a litany of profane curses. Damn it all to hell. This was not going to be the end of him; he utterly, fucking, refused to be like one of those poor, unfortunate souls who'd somehow contracted an illness and passed into a coma before finally coming to and finding themselves buried alive. He'd heard stories of that kind of thing happening in Savannah, since yellow fever ran rampant every summer and claimed many of its citizens—some of whom had initially survived the disease until they found themselves dying a slow death because of the ignorance of their loved ones. _But then, I wasn't in a coma when my own children laid me to rest, or was I?_ he queried with a touch of bitterness as he again pressed his weight against the lid.

It was of little consequence, concerning the particulars of his own funeral. Undoubtedly, he'd been buried within the family mausoleum, since a burial underground was saved only for the extended part of the family. From what he could discern of the coffin and the state of his clothing, he suspected that Charlotte had seen to what he wore personally. _She placed me in my favorite suit. How thoughtful of her_. He would somehow have to extend his gratitude to her as soon he found a way out of the wooden box that presently held him. He didn't worry about such a middling thing as suffocating, but the thought of being forever trapped in a confined space wasn't appealing to him, either. He had to escape. _But how?_ he wondered, before the thought struck him, and he grinned a devil's grin.

Drawing away from the lid, he relaxed, if only for a brief moment, before mustering the whole of his strength as his hands, now clenched into two fists of iron, shot through the confined space, the wood above splintering as it gave way and pierced the sides of his hands. Cal ignored the sensation of his flesh tearing apart, however, finding the pain only a mild irritation, compared to the sudden sense of freedom that he felt before his momentary elation gave way to shock when a pile of freshly dug earth caved in on top of him. _Shit_. No, this was not _supposed_ to happen. He wasn't supposed to be buried like a commoner. _They probably even buried me in a pauper's grave, as well_, he mordantly considered as he glared at what little remained of the lid. It would be absolute hell, he knew, to dig through six feet of dirt. But he could do it. He wasn't born a Hockley by chance, after all. And by God, he would pull himself up by his figurative bootstraps, as it were, and get himself out of this godforsaken ditch that his children—or whoever the hell saw to his funeral arrangements—had left him in. They would pay when he got out, and dearly.

It took him the better part of the night before his fingers finally sifted through the earth and broke through to the world above.

…

The mansion looked the same as it always had. And yet, as Cal stared it, bedraggled and pale and covered in a torn, soiled death shroud that had once served as his finest evening suit, he nevertheless saw it through a pair of opened eyes—a foreigner's eyes—when he took in the looming towering edifice that had served as his home for the better part of forty-seven years, as the night's sky above heralded an undeniable change, deep within himself. He felt different, as if, somewhere during in the interim of his deathlike slumber that consisted solely of death and dreams, something had shifted, a change most unforeseen yet felt all the same. And Cal, drained of both life and love, reveled in the fact of it as he made his way to his home and passed through a side door that he strangely opened with ease.

Greeted by the comforting darkness that the absence his staff and their need for artificial light afforded him, he took in the silence and the smells that had become as familiar to him as an old habit. He smelled the personal scents of everyone in his household, noting, to his sudden irritation, the absence of his eldest's, but was mildly pleased that his other children's remained as potent as if he was standing in the same room with them—but then…he smelt another's in place of Alexander's—one that had no right of being there. _That goddamned whore._

He was in his room without another thought as a pair of twin Siamese cats, which overwhelmed his senses and filled him with disgust from their overly feline scent, hissed at it his sudden presence. He glowered at them coldly and all that they and their master represented, knowing that they were here, simply for the fact that he hated the wretched creatures and forbade their kind from ever entering his house. The slight of their being here now rekindled a long dead sense of resentment, his glaring gaze taking in the sleeping form which lay so blissfully unaware of his presence in his bed, that wealth of auburn hair, now faintly tinged with a few wayward strands of silver, eclipsing a pillow and part of another in a river of deep, sinuous red. Felicia. It took everything within Cal not to haul over to her side and strangle her for returning to his home. For he wanted nothing more than to hear her startled cries when she looked pleadingly into his eyes as he heard her breathe her final breath, his hands blemishing that delicate white throat of hers, the bruises his fingers imparted the solitary remainder of such a beautifully sweet release from this unpredictable cycle of life and death. He would liberate his poor, inconstant, miserable ex-wife from everything, and he was well nigh tempted to do so, but the sight of something—or rather, its absence thereof—prevented him. _What in the hell has she done with my painting?_ He glared murderously at the woman who had, having doubtlessly heard of his demise, and had thus decided to play some long-lost mother to his band of _orphaned_ children, had come in and saw again that which had ultimately replaced her—a painted memorial of a woman that she herself could never hope to be.

Ignoring the cats, which had, to Cal's satisfaction, bolted to the other side of the room, he acknowledged the woman who had given cause to unleash a potential outburst that would undoubtedly result in her own, pathetic demise. "What have you done with my things, you insipid little slut?" he murmured from the shadows, an acrid whisper of a dark lullaby, which failed to stir her from her opium-induced dreams, as the little indigo bottle at his bedside revealed that she still had a taste for the drug, apparently well after their own disastrous marriage had ended. He hoped she would never awaken from her latest indulgence, yet doubted that he would be as fortunate.

Felicia would suffer from her mistake in returning in due course, that he could promise her. For now, however, he would leave her to her opiatic delusions and futile hopes of returning to the grandeur she'd long been denied as he made his way to his closet and found his entire wardrobe missing. _Jesus Christ._ Did the whore do away with all of his possessions in his absence? His right hand clutched into a hardened fist of rage, his anger emphasized by its barely controlled shaking. By all appearances, it looked as though to Cal that Felicia would be dead before dawn, if things continued to progress as they had so far. He even considered indulging in a portion of her blood, but found the thought distasteful, knowing well enough that the poison in her system and the overall taint of all the lovers she'd had over the years would undoubtedly sicken him. The fact didn't make his need any less than what it presently was, for he desired _something_ to sate his thirst, as it returned in its intensity a thousandfold. He shook his head then, his hands coming to the sides of his temples as he tried to focus.

He needed to feed, his bloodlust clouding all rationality until he forced himself to break through that basic, most primal instinct and concentrate in retaining a semblance of his humanity. He looked again at his former wife and stared upon her hapless sleeping visage, wondering how in the hell she'd managed to worm her way back into his household, since Grimsbury and the others should've done their job and kept the trash he'd turned fifteen years ago out.

He looked down at the hardwood floor, forcing his hunger and rage to the side. His mind still ached like the devil, the side in which the bullet had gone through his brain and skull still sore, surprisingly tender to the touch. He could hardly understand how he could place one coherent thought alongside the next, given the extent of his injuries, but he managed, just as he knew—whether by instinct or from some self-ingrained, preternatural knowledge inducted by his fledgling state—that the answers he sought lay within the soporific confines of Felicia's drug-induced mind. _Just what have you been up to, my dear?_

Exerting the few remaining strands of his patience, he breathed in an unnecessary pocket of air into his lungs and sighed before closing his eyes. God, he wished he had a cigarette, but such a material luxury would have to wait. For now, he had to reassess his position of power and straighten out the mess in which he'd left his household. Clearing his mind, he shifted his thoughts toward that of Felicia's, probing her memories, the very method almost now coming as second nature to him. It took him a moment to sift through her subconscious thoughts, muddled and half-construed with faded imaginings of a life she'd had and yearned to once again possess. He nearly snorted at her innermost desires, convinced that she would be far from pleased if she knew of her impending eviction.

His amusement, however, ended the moment he locked onto that which he sought, a veritable black cloud of rage overshadowing his already obscured face as betrayal of the worst kind illuminated the whites of his eyes. That flamboyantly bold, presumptuous bitch. He could hardly believe it. And yet, the proof of such an affront lay, right in front of him. It again took everything within him not to snap her treacherous little neck, as he circled the bed like a vulture would a corpse, poised to pick out her dead, decaying watery gray eyes, a delectable feast. Cal's expression darkened.

So, she intended to come back into his children's lives and play the happy, loving, long-lost mother to them, while she oversaw the family fortune from the side. How very motherly of her. Of course, if Cal recalled correctly, she'd always been quite apt in that regard; a saccharine-sweet twin sister of Judas, who desired more than a paltry thirty pieces of silver; she'd wanted a king's ransom in gold for siring him three incompetent bastard children who undoubtedly weren't even his own. She'd betrayed him in more than simply sleeping around, as he now understood, if in some small measure, how a betrayed Christ felt in the garden of Gethsemane, perhaps, although he would not be as forgiving in the transgressions made against him, let alone the Hockley family name. No, he would do more than simply put his deceitful little whore of an ex-wife in her place, since what he now intended would be second to a most merciful crucifixion. He grinned at the thought of the punishment that had taken root in his mind, those ghastly white teeth shining in the darkness. He would so enjoy hearing her scream.

But for now, he had other things to attend to.

Probing once more through the scattered, unpleasant mess that was Felicia's mind, he pursed through the endless monotony of her plans for redesigning the mansion, and found the lingering traces of what yet still belonged to him. His grin widened. Glancing once more toward the bed, he mouthed a solemn promise to return before taking his leave. For even the sweetest revenge still required a fresh change of clothes—which she'd conveniently placed in a spare room down the hall, as well a few of his other, more important possessions that she planned to sell when the fancy took her—and a face devoid of the filth in which she'd happily placed him in, as he now knew just who it was that had seen to his burial. He'd enjoy giving her pain. _As well as ensuring that she doesn't see a single, goddamned, red cent of my money_.

He retained the whole of his laughter, keeping it buried deep within in the cavity of his chest as he took in the emotions of his other children, sensing their various feelings of disquiet, tranquility, and upset, simultaneously by turns, all the while coursing out a plan of action that would forever render the fate of what little remained of the family fortune in a manner in which he could ensure children's lives and his own way of freedom. An unscheduled visit to his solicitor was certainly in order as he took into account everything that couldn't be left out, when his signature was finally set to paper. There was no room for error, given the circumstances of how his final will and testament presently stood. He rolled his eyes as he looked to the ceiling. Goddamn it. Sometimes death was nothing more than an absolute pain in the ass; and it was just his luck in having to deal with it, all within a matter of a few hours. Sometimes living the life of a wealthy businessman was simply not worth the effort.

_And yet…I live._

He thought of nothing else as he chose one of his more suitable day suits, crisp and clean-cut, before purging himself of all the grim and decay his little jaunt in the grave had bestowed upon him. Only the fact of that most inarguable fact remained, when he took in the absence of his reflection in a nearby window and saw the limitless possibilities that such an empty, blank existence provided him. And it was with this simple, single-most truth alone that compelled him to leave his home and set everything that his untimely death had left to rights.

He glanced at his pocket watch—which had, strangely, accompanied him to the grave—and noted the hour. He smiled grimly, yet remained assured that his business with his solicitor, the ever so wondrously prodigious Mr. Edwin Davenport, who ironically hailed from such a place as New Haven, Connecticut, would take no more than a quarter of an hour, given the man's tenacity in his hand with a typewriter and skill at forging a notary's certification, Cal had complete confidence in his solicitor's abilities. _It's why I pay the man as I do, after all_.

For after all, an extra thirty-five thousand a year was no cheap sum for one in his employ, by any means. Davenport was as good as he gave in return, and then some, if Cal were to be perfectly honest.

And it was with this self-confident reassurance that Caledon Hockley walked with the steady, level-headed coolness that he'd so long striven to perfect, just as he was now newly attired and every inch the shrewd businessman that he had been in life, as he walked through the grand marbled foyer of the elaborate Hockley mansion, and out the main door, without anyone to mark the sight of his miraculous return.

…

An hour remained before sunrise by the time Cal returned home.

He'd concluded a rather brief business session with Davenport, who'd gone, Cal was sure, prematurely white by the time he'd left the young man in that comfortable little town house on the riverfront, staring at his retreating form, wholly frantic and bewildered, that shocked, silenced mouth gaping wide open in muted disbelief as Cal left him with a mountain of paperwork to tend to—all required to be finished before breakfast—before his darling little ex-wife caught onto what he'd just done.

Very little remained in the way of anything pertaining to that of a legal nature, considering that most of everything had already been finalized, well before—from what he'd learned from a paling Mr. Davenport whose well-manicured hand shook when he downed a glass of brandy, filled to the brim with ice, and then, consequently, another—of what had only passed for a week since his untimely demise. Not that the details pertaining to such mattered at present, of course. For if Davenport was as good as he claimed to be, in the way of cutting through any legal red tape or bypassing any, if not all, unnecessary attention, then he could see to the newly revised will of a dead man, seemingly with utmost ease. It was why Cal had sought out Davenport's services in the first place, understanding well enough that the thirty-five-year-old former stockbroker was more than just a head full of numbers that emanated good business savvy. Edwin Davenport was the everyman all wealthy businessmen and financiers wanted in their employ, a Jack of all trades in the manner of speculation and Houdini-proofed contract loopholes, as it were.

In short, if Davenport managed to pull through, and Cal was no less than certain of the man's capabilities, he had nothing to worry about, which he didn't, when he found himself presently standing in Charlotte's room, the door fully closed and locked as he wished for a private moment with her. Silence passed between them for several moments as Cal observed her slender figure wrapped in a throng of white satin sheets from a restless night's dreaming. The dried imprints that revealed the fading tracks of her tears, combined with an unnatural paleness of her usually jubilant expression, compelled him to give pause as he looked upon the one child he should've considered as more of a daughter than a momentary show of weakness. He'd looked in on the others before coming to her, yes, as even Alexander had somehow managed to return within the time in which he'd been with Davenport. And although he sensed a great feeling of unease from his younger son, Marcus, who seemed to genuinely mourn for the loss of a father and mentor, Alexander and Cecelia failed to express even a fraction of the same. _And it's precisely why I've framed my will as I have_, he thought, looking upon Charlotte's beautifully troubled face.

For out of all his children, including even a very contrite Marcus, who had somehow, rather surprisingly, abandoned his love of reading those ridiculous works of horror and chose in favor of seeing to the company's finances instead, Charlotte was still yet the only one out of the four who'd felt the loss of him the hardest, and it almost pained Cal to admit that he'd perhaps failed to truly consider the pain his passing would inevitably inflict upon the one child who had looked so genuinely up to him over the years—the one child who wasn't even his biologically, but had certainly been closer than any who shared a familial association by blood. Charlotte had felt the gravity of a daughter's loss of a most beloved father, regardless of being unrelated, as she turned in her sleep, her right hand clutching tightly at something she held within her grasp.

Stepping closer, Cal moved to his daughter's side, and saw the whole of her bereavement in full. A pair of shadows were darkly aligned underneath the hollows of her closed eyes, the delicate tip of her nose chaffed and rubbed raw from the extensive use of a handkerchief. Her pallor did nothing to allay the wreck her beautiful face had become as her golden hair had also lost some of its luster. She looked like one of the many young women he'd seen who'd lost a loved one in the War, her pain as real and as tangible as what they—and, yes, even those he'd witnessed on the _Carpathia_, had suffered—when they came to learn of their family and friends' fates the following morning firsthand. And now his daughter had been touched by a similar sorrow—one that he himself, the man she grieved so regrettably for, had duly inflicted—as she turned again in her restless slumber, a fresh set of tears threatening to fall from her eyes.

It took everything within him not to give in and kneel at her side and awkwardly comfort her by wiping away those solemn tears that cascaded down her cheeks. But he couldn't. Not when the desire to tear into her beautifully rounded throat gnawed away at his self-restraint. Keeping himself from doing the same to Davenport had been a chore, since he instead took the liberty in relieving the man of a few of his cigarettes in the quarter hour they'd talked, and he greatly doubted that he could withstand the temptation that Charlotte inadvertently presented him. And so he instead remained ever the solitary statue of a father carved from obdurate stone, cold and distant, just as he had been in life.

And yet, in spite of his self-imposed restraint, he gazed upon the young woman he'd claimed a daughter and exerted the only semblance of paternal kindness as he withdrew a long ivory-toned envelope from the interior of his coat. He held it in silence, those long fingers thoughtfully tapping its folded edge ever so slightly against his chin, as he stared upon Charlotte and considered her fate, which he now held in his hand, before carefully setting it underneath the pillow upon which that golden head rested.

"This is for you," he whispered, knowing well enough that she couldn't hear him, yet uttered his explanation all the same. He turned away from her then, prepared to leave without another word until he caught sight of something glisten in her hand as it fell to the floor in a twinned resonance of gold and sound.

He bent down without hesitation and retrieved what she'd dropped. A slight oath escaped from him when clutched at that which he now held as he glanced down at the twin pieces of gold, etched with a perfect sunrise on each, and reluctantly acknowledged the cufflinks that she'd given him for his birthday. She'd undoubtedly been unable to bury them along with him, choosing instead to keep a part of him alive with her, their golden edges still retaining a sense of warmth from those gentle, tender-taken fingers. Cal raised them to eye-level and he considered the care that she had given them, the gesture itself, strangely, endearing.

"Daddy?"

He almost dropped them when he heard her speak, surprised as he was that she'd somehow managed to catch him off guard. But then he noticed that her eyes were still closed, and that she was simply dreaming of him instead. He relaxed at the realization, though was unable to remain silent. "I am here, Charlotte," he replied, barely above a whisper, his voice rough and foreign, seemingly no longer his own. "I've come home."

She frowned at the sound of his voice as she lightly stirred in her sleep. "Why?"

Cal mirrored her frown, half-surprised that she was able to speak to him, but then accepted it as he had almost every other strange nuance in the newly-instilled abilities that he'd somehow attained amongst the ranks of the living dead. "Why? Why, what?" he questioned, unable to read her mind for the instability of his bloodlust.

Charlotte groaned, though it was more so a mournful cry in her sleep than anything, as she answered him fully, "Why did you leave us, Daddy? Why did you leave us alone with _her_?"

It was more of a question than an accusation, and yet it stunned him nonetheless. For what had Felicia done during her inglorious return to the Hockley estate? He'd sifted through a week's worth of the woman's thoughts, yet grasped that he'd barely grazed the surface of that depraved subconscious. He shook his head then, suddenly growing agitated. Committing suicide certainly hadn't helped matters, since he now came to understand the impact his momentary decision had presently accorded him. He muttered an oath and looked again at Charlotte; for if anyone in this house had answers, and had enough honesty tell him, it was she.

"Tell me what happened," he said, soft in his command, as he compelled his daughter to answer him from beyond her unconscious state. "Tell me what she's done."

And Charlotte accommodated him. "She…came…after you…left us. It was a…a…mess in the study. Such a terrible mess! Marcus and Alexander tried to keep me and Celia away from it, but I saw it, Daddy, I saw it. We tried to keep everything quiet—Marcus believed it best that we not tell anyone about what had happened to you—but the papers found out…and…and it was horrible, Daddy, so horrible!" She frowned then, her voice rising beyond its normally soft timbre, and Cal found himself calming her in a half-assured whisper:

"You mustn't raise your voice, Charlotte," he soothed in that placating manner of a businessman on the verge of clenching a deal with a tough rival competitor. "Just tell me what she's done."

She seemed to respond to his mild tone, the frown on her face lessening in its severity as she once again drifted back into a relaxed position. She breathed out, her expression returning to a semi-placid state of calmness. "I'm sorry, Daddy, forgive me. I'd nearly forgotten myself, especially with everything that's happened. It's just been a nightmare without you here; and with her around again, I can't seem to stay calm about it. I never told you this, but she never liked me all that well before you divorced her. I…believe she's always hated me…for being _yours_ instead of _hers_." Another tear escaped from a closed eye, but she continued regardless. "I tried to keep her out. Both and Marcus and I tried, Daddy, but Celia was so happy to finally meet the mother she's never really known, and Alexander would hear nothing in turning her away, since he welcomed her back with open arms. He's always been close to her, even before she left, and as I now suspect that he's somehow kept in contact with her—without your knowledge of it."

"I'll bet he has," Cal muttered, cursing himself for not suspecting his son's secret sooner. He was even half-inclined to believe that it was from Alexander and not the papers that inspired the whore to return, both mother and son plotting to defy him, even in death. "Has she harmed you?" he found himself ask, surprisingly almost completely out of his character, certainly, yet still needing to know.

Charlotte made a face. "She hasn't struck me," she answered. "But then, I find what she's said to be far more frightening. Oh, Daddy, she's even worse than before. She took down that Rossetti painting you like so well, and she's also kept that diamond ring you always carry. She's even threatened to sell it, along with anything else that displeases her." _Or reminds her of you_.

She had hadn't said the words, although Cal read them well enough in her silence. His hardened gaze faltered a fraction upon this new revelation; he hadn't considered what had become of Rose's engagement ring until that moment. He swallowed down a good portion of his anger, finding that there were far more pressing matters to attend to than simply retrieving a stolen ring, which he would recover in due course. For now, however, Charlotte was all that mattered.

"You said that's she become more frightening than before," he reiterated, attempting to remain calm, in spite of his need to return to his room and tear the cause of his present anger apart. "What has she said? Tell me, Charlotte," he pressed when she didn't answer him immediately. Damn. She'd gone silent on him. Shaking his head, he summoned the remainder of his self-will and came to her side. Closing his eyes, he allowed himself a moment before shifting through Charlotte's conflicted thoughts and emotions. Despite his initial difficulty, he managed to navigate through them with seemingless ease, his daughter's memories more lucid and coherent than those of Felicia's, just as what he saw enraged him beyond all recognition.

For there, cloistered away in the hollows of Charlotte's subconscious memories, lay the nightmare reality in which she'd briefly alluded to him. As it was there, in the subtextual contours of her thoughts, he saw Felicia's return, felt Charlotte's hesitation and overall reluctance in tolerating a woman who, along with Alexander, saw to the sham that had been their dearly departed father's funeral, all the while thinking of him, shut away in some offhand corner of a city morgue, before finally being housed in an earthen tomb. She'd barely had time to grieve, let alone countenance the reality of her loss, as she'd stood by Marcus' side, helpless and numb, all the while going through the daily motions in donning the customary colors of mourning, before walking and speaking to all who'd approached her and accepted their false condolences in a reserved daze. She was far from the diffident, bright-eyed young woman he'd only belatedly come to appreciate, her natural faculties in replacing her stepmother as hostess of the Hockley family a recently esteemed attribute. She'd almost again become that lost little orphaned child he'd come to take pity upon, as it now stirred emotions that he long believed himself incapable of feeling.

Setting the thought of his past weakness for his daughter aside, he shifted his attention to her more recent memories…and almost screamed. His eyes opened and gleamed with a most murderous shade of red, his hands shaking in hard protest, for he now understood the reason for her fear of her one-time stepmother. Cal's glower deepened. So, the bitch had threatened his daughter, by practically throwing her out into the streets without a penny. And Charlotte, understanding the disastrous black mark of scandal his suicide had left upon the family, had reason to fear for her livelihood, since very few would show a semblance of compassion and take in one who was now deemed a social pariah. _And all because of a momentary decision made on my part_, he thought as he considered his daughter and the fears and pain she'd endured in his absence. His death had injured her, certainly, but then Marcus and a fiercely loyal Albert, who'd he seen had remained faithfully at her side, clutching one of her delicate gloved hands in his own as they watched the coffin which had held Cal being laid low in the cold, unforgiving earth that held lesser Hockleys, had been there for her.

The fact of Albert's constancy in remaining with his daughter was, perhaps unsurprisingly, enough for Cal to relent in a decision he'd been long reluctant to consider for over half a year now. He opened his eyes and looked upon his daughter a final time.

Breathing out an unnecessary breath, he kneeled once again and took in Charlotte's luminous face. She was so beautiful and perfect—the epitome of everything he'd desired in all his children, and why he hadn't noticed that until now he would probably never know. But regardless of that most shameful error, he nevertheless found himself appreciating her, knowing that his feelings regarding such would be unfortunately short-lived, given the circumstances; where, out of an uncharacteristic show of tenderness, he extended his right hand and touched that delicate curve of her cheek with his fingers. Mindful of his sharp nails, he allowed himself this single, fatherly moment with his daughter. He'd already issued a farewell to his other children, in his own way; however, the extent of his paternal affection rested with Charlotte.

"You needn't worry about your stepmother," he whispered in the form of a promise, both unbreakable and lasting. "I've already seen to everything regarding your future, since I've decided to leave Marcus as the legal executor over my will and head of the company. I believe him capable enough, as I have also left you with enough to ensure a comfortable life, should your foolish stepmother take a notion in attempting to turn you out. That assurance rests underneath your pillow." He looked down then, glancing at the space between them before returning his gaze to her gentle face. "You will be happy, Charlotte, I've ensured as much. And if Albert Gainsborough is what makes you happy, then you have my blessing to marry him if he proposes."

Charlotte's face became an expression of utter calm, now serene by the words in which her father spoke. It almost heartened him to see such a glorious transformation, almost believing that single, tender moment worth more than the engagement ring that Felicia presently held in her possession. His eyes darkened at the thought, however slightly, as his attention remained upon Charlotte. He would take care of that deviously grasping, shameless excuse of a succubus that had been his wife in due course. For now, though, he wanted another moment with his daughter, as he wished for her every happiness and kissed her farewell. She lightly stirred underneath that cold kiss to her forehead, a fresh set of tears threatening to fall. Cal gently brushed them away, their warmth consoling the coldness exerted from his fingertips.

He inclined his head, standing from her side as he took a cursory step away. He almost faltered at the sound of her soft protest in his leaving her, and leaned down once again, as he grasped her hand. "Thank you for keeping my cufflinks," he said, finding that he still yet held them in his grasp. "I'll be certain to always keep them with me, to remember you and the love you had for me. I do care for you, Charlotte." _It's only just taken me until now to realize it, it seems_.

Leaning forward, he kissed her forehead a final time before standing. It almost pained him to say good-bye—a difficult action, which again forced him to see the little girl he'd saved—as Charlotte had done more for him than he would, perhaps, ever know. He had saved her once, certainly, but she had saved him in so many ways beyond that of a literal nature. He almost regretted his inability in remaining a father to her or walking her down the aisle, the blushing bride, who wore white instead of black. He shook his head at the thought, refusing to wax poetic at a time such as this. It was time to move on; Charlotte, as well as his other children, would manage to carry on a semblance of relative normalcy without him.

With the last remaining fragment of his humanity, he composed himself, if only for her sake. "You don't need to worry over me now, Charlotte, since everything will be fine in the morning, I promise."

He said nothing more, the slight smile upon her face, though tinged with a hint of sadness, was enough for him to leave her to a life with another with a clear conscience. Albert would look after her, of that he was sure, for that knowledge was the only consolation he had in leaving her, since he was half-tempted to take her with him, not quite ready to abandon his old life for a new one. He would never be able to play his mother's piano again, and although he refused to allow himself to lament in that bitterly acknowledged fact, he still felt a slight touch of regret for its loss all the same. He'd left it to Charlotte, as well as his Rossetti, and a few other things he knew she treasured, to do with as she pleased. _And yet, there are_ _still a few things left to attend to before I go, _hethought, unlocking the bedroom door and opening it with a careful hand. He considered this, suddenly finding a new sense of purpose for his life—or rather, un-life, as it was—as he looked at Charlotte a final time and pocketed the cufflinks that he held before closing the door quietly behind him.

For indeed, it would be as what he'd said to her, as he presently strode down the hall to the room in which Felicia had taken up residence: everything would be all right in the morning, with the brilliant coming of the first light of day.

And he would see to the promise of such personally.

…

**Author's Note: First off, my deepest apologies for going months upon months without an update for that particularly unnerving cliffhanger I left everyone with from the last chapter. I also apologize if my writing is not up to par with this present chapter; I've recently been without a computer of my own, and have been using my sister's when she doesn't need it. I've finally gotten a new one ordered, so hopefully I can return to writing and posting chapters more frequently when I get it in and fixed up. Either way, though, I'll probably end up revising this chapter, since I almost always find myself picking at chapters that I've already posted. I always tend to work under the hammer in posting these things, since I only post on certain days. I generally like to post on odd numbered days and usually in odd numbered months of the year, strangely enough. I'm also a procrastinator, too. It's sad, but irrefutably true. XD**

**Oh, and there is something I also need to address:** **I'm actually cutting this chapter up into two parts, since this was going to be one hell of a monster to read/revise if I didn't. Truth is, I just couldn't write a chapter with a possible 20,000+ words in length. I just couldn't. And so, I finally decided to settle for a two-parter instead. I plan to have the second half written and posted in a couple of weeks. And I can promise that, with this second half, I don't think any of us will be disappointed in how that particular part of this chapter ends! (Wink! Wink!)**

**I must also confess that I don't ever post anything in April. I just don't. Consider it one of my many odd quirks in writing, but in this one circumstance, I had to make an exception, as I wanted to have something made in tribute to those who lost their lives a century ago. It's still difficult for me to fathom such a significant loss of life that transpired over a single night. I don't believe anyone shall ever forget the tragedy that happened that night, as we recall those brave souls who both lived and perished in the midst of such an unforeseeable, and also unforgettable, disaster. Our thoughts are forever with those from that night and beyond.**

**Also, I really don't have a lot in the line of historical trivia for this chapter. Nevertheless, there are still a few things I need to mention:**

**I've really only briefly touched upon the subject of Cal's suicide, along with the repercussions thereof, but even in the late 1920s, the act was still considered quite scandalous and the surviving family usually suffered for it, especially if the individual was of a very religious background. In some circumstances, particularly within the Catholic Church's doctrine, those who committed suicide were not permitted to be buried in a church cemetery, and were usually buried outside of them. I'm not for sure how long that ruling was upheld, however, as it was implemented when a suicide was of public knowledge. With Cal being Presbyterian in this story, as well as having a family cemetery on his estate, I managed to circumvent around that dilemma in having to go through a lot of research regarding that subject.**

**Being buried alive has been historically documented. There were cases of it happening in Savannah during the nineteenth century, with a large outbreak of yellow fever in the 1820s, and then later in the 1850s. It was something I learned about on a ghost tour there last summer, and the thought stuck with me, since it's just beyond horrifying to imagine such a thing happening.**

**As for Charlotte, which is really something late in coming, she honestly puts me in mind of Allison from the film, **_**Meet Joe Black,**_** in the way in which she practically adores her father, even though it's her younger sister whom he loves more. Allison really does everything to please her giant of a corporate father, which really parallels the way in which Charlotte idolizes Cal. I just thought I'd put that out there. I also have a photo of how Charlotte looks when I wrote her. If anyone's interested in seeing her, let me know, and I'll send you a link of it. =)**

**The German philosopher references vaguely alludes to Max Weber, a nineteenth century German sociologist, who pretty much created the method of **_**verstehen**_**, which translates to understand in English. I honestly have no idea where that came from, really, since I haven't studied sociology in years. The whole reference came out of nowhere, honestly.**

**I've also used a reference from the original version of the film, with the scene from when Rose looks up at the constellations in the night's sky after the sinking. I have yet to see the 3D version at this point, but I've heard that James Cameron has changed that shot to a more accurate depiction of the sky Rose would've seen that night. But regardless of that change, I've still decided to make mention of Corona Borealis constellation, since it stood out for me when I first saw the film, fifteen years ago. **

**Inspiration for the coffin scene, oddly enough, came from the 1990 T.V. movie version of **_**Buried Alive**_**, as well as the 1998 adaptation of Ed Wood's **_**I Woke Up Early the Day I Died**_**, which does feature a silent Billy Zane wearing a bizarre hairpiece! The whole coming out of the grave scene with him is really something to see. I mean, I'd envisioned Cal's clawing through to the surface of his grave before seeing the movie, but the movie really cemented that scene in my head. It's rather funny, too. I recommend seeing it at least once. :D**

**Emily Browning's version of the Eurythmic's "Sweet Dreams Are Made of This" also factored in heavily in the means of inspiration in writing the first half of this chapter. I believe that, with the opening of the second half, everyone will see why. It's a very haunting song, and is, oddly enough, I think my favorite version so far of such a long beloved classic. **

**As for the final scene, I'd considered having it end a different way, but decided that Cal and Charlotte deserved to have that final scene together, since, sadly, this is going to be the last time we see her for a while. I'm sorry, everyone, I love Charlotte, too, but in order for this story to go where I need to take it, we're going to have to say goodbye to Charlotte, as well as the rest of Cal's family and acquaintances. It breaks my heart, but it must be done. (Sighs.)**

**But again, I really want to extend a huge thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, sent e-mails, and PM'ed me. You guys are wonderful, truly. You're really the reason why I continue writing this story! Thanks again! :D **

**Until part two, everyone!**

— **Kittie**

**May 17****th**** 2012****: Just a further note. I've gone back and edited this chapter a second time, since I noticed a few things that I failed to correct on my first revision. I've also extended some of the dialogue between Cal and Charlotte, as well as a few other places in the chapter. **


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